


Rest Stop

by Zooheaded



Series: The Hunter and the Thief [3]
Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo III
Genre: ADHD Character, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexual Character, Drama, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pansexual Character, Sexual Content, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zooheaded/pseuds/Zooheaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a Demon Hunter and a thief reach the limits of their tolerance for one another in a small village southeast of New Tristram, Lyndon develops a modicum of patience, and Jack begins to trust.</p><p>News: REVISED CHAPTER 2 POSTED!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Creature Comforts

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [Parada de descanso](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518287) by [MistofChaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistofChaos/pseuds/MistofChaos)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a habit of looking back on old work and thinking "I have wounded the Earth with my ham-fisted drivel" so then I get fed up and edit/fix things. This chapter has been entirely re-done and here it is in all its High Definition 1080p glory. I'm much, much happier with it now. Will I still be happy in a few weeks? Perhaps, perhaps not, but for now it's more in line with what it should have been. When I love something, I want it to exist in the highest form I can manage.
> 
> If you are saddened by this revision and wish to torment me by desiring the old version, I still have a copy lying about in all its inferiority that I MAY gift to you.
> 
> Special thanks to blackeyedblonde (definitionsfading on the tumblr) for editing this monstrosity for me. Please read her True Detective fic, it's some GOOOOD SHIITTT.
> 
> Chapter 2 will follow, and the rest after that as soon as I can manage to complete them. I have no time-frame so don't hold your breath (this shit already took me like 3 months).
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

> _Westron wind, when will thou blow?_  
>  _The small rain down can rain._  
>  _Christ, if my love were in my arms,_  
>  _And I in my bed again._  
>  ―Western Wind, c. 1530

 

Fog hung listless in the branches of the trees, unwilling to loosen its death grip on the landscape. The leaves had lost most of their autumnal brilliance in the lateness of the season, instead turning brown and shriveled like small roosting bats. The grey sky met the grey air in a grey embrace, creating a dumpy bluish color that made everything cold and rather miserable looking overall. It was dim too, maybe a handful of hours left before full dark. The weather had been a steady drizzling rain off and on for nearly a week now, clamming the air and freezing his fingers, and it didn't look like it was going to quit anytime soon, much to Lyndon's ongoing displeasure. He hated being wet unless he was swimming, and it certainly wasn't warm enough for that. Or if he was taking a bath, and well, that was a luxury he highly doubted he'd be indulging in anytime soon.

They―Lyndon and Jack―were in Khanduras again, trudging their not-so-merry way through the desolate bit of moorland southeast of Tristram on the fast track to Westmarch, and Lyndon was fairly certain that most of the local dirty-faced, sheep-shagging peasantry didn't believe in bathing.

Lyndon thought fondly of Kingsport's contrasting vibrancy in times like these; burst free from her borders for over a year now, and yet red, gold, burnt orange and the blue, blue of the sea whipped through his memory like the pennants bearing the city's crest; beach roses and crossed swords. Beauty and Finesse. Not like here. Not like here at all. They'd even missed the nice red and orange leaves, like they'd missed every pleasant season, always moving from one miserable extreme to the next. Ahh, typical north country, where all the pretty colors went to die.

_Or dye. Ha._

The path dipped down and a crumbling rock wall, likely as ancient as the land itself, rose up along their left, then higher still as they skirted the base of a steep hill. Mossy boulders lay scattered among the trees like lost marbles, massive shadowy shapes looming in the gloom. Lyndon frowned as his boots squelched unpleasantly through the mud―it was going to take forever to get the filth out of the suede. Knowing his luck, his favourite pair of footwear (nicked from a drifter with conveniently same sized feet) would likely never be the same.

Some panicked sounding twit with very pretty handwriting had sent an anonymous letter by a fat carrier pigeon, claiming that there was some kind of nastiness brewing in Westmarch's large capitol that shared its moniker. Probably a group of women starved Templars gone off the rocker. Lyndon laughed to himself at that. What terrible trouble could there possibly be if all the great demon lords were dead?

Speaking of women-starved, Lyndon was pretty sure he was going to waste away and die out here if he didn't find a pretty girl or something soon. He hadn't scratched that particular itch since those two barmaids in Lut Gholein, and a handful of sad evenings with Rosy Palm and her five sisters could only take the edge off for so long. But eugh, bloody _Westmarch_ though, where all the city's elite looked down their noses at anyone with a distinctly Kingsport tongue. Even one as smooth and cultured and noble as he'd forced his to be. The amount of personal effort and charm he'd needed to put forth in order to get women interested enough to actually sleep with him in that wretched city had been staggering. Frankly, he deserved a fucking medal. What a summer. Dark haired and sour-faced, the lot of them. Like Jacky was, and Lyndon wondered briefly if he were a native or had some relation. Regardless, he certainly couldn't wait to pay that stuffy little snob-hole another visit. _Not_.

“Do you know what happened the last time I was in Westmarch?” Lyndon asked the Demon Hunter as airily as he could manage whilst they rounded a bend in their path to discover― yet more foggy forest! Would wonders never cease?

Jack didn't even glance back at him to answer, which Lyndon found rather rude. “Yes. You were assaulted by several women. You've mentioned this before,” the hunter replied, about as friendly as a rotted log and all the bugs and newts beneath it.

“Several naked and _angry_ women,” Lyndon amended helpfully, stepping carefully over a large tree root. Wouldn't want a repeat of yesterday when he'd tripped and face planted in the mud. “And who's fault was that, do you think?” he prodded.

“Yours, I assume.”

“Uh, wrong!” Lyndon shot back. “If Mariella hadn't tattled on me to all her little girlfriends then that whole mess would have been avoided!”

Jack turned to look at him then, his face a mask of that half-bored, half-serious expression he always had planted there. In the low light he also looked a little bit angry, but then again he sort of always did. His eyes were piercing―very, very blue, Lyndon noticed, but maybe that was just a trick of the light too.

"Maybe you shouldn't have given her a reason to," Jack lectured like a tired parent. "Maybe you should have thought a bit harder about it before you decided to sleep around." It was the most he'd said all day. He studied the dark misty trees flanking their path for several moments as if in contemplation before releasing a tired sounding sigh, “... Please don't tell me things like this, Lyndon.”

 _Yeah, like you would know anything about it you fucking tit_ , Lyndon thought nastily, reminding himself that the Demon Hunter with his grim black cloak, and his grim black armor, and his grim black hair, had probably never even once kissed a girl in his entire stupid, grim black life. _Prick_.

"Mmm, maybe maybe." Lyndon drawled, amused. "What I'm saying is," he pressed after a pause, skipping ahead, "is that I probably shouldn't be going back there for a while...” He finished with nervous, halted laughter. “Really, must we bother going all the way there?”

“You can go wherever you like. I'm not your keeper.” He replied, and well, that made it sound like he didn't give a tinker's damn if Lyndon was here with him or not!

“But since there isn't much else for us to do currently besides make our trip to Kingsport, it can't hurt to pay a visit. Adria could be anywhere,” Jack finished rather curtly, dismissing Lyndon's concerns.

“Fine, whatever.” Lyndon sulked, then kicked a loose stone, watching it bounce off the path and disappear into the mist. It probably would hurt to pay Westmarch a visit actually, and he had a pretty good idea of just who was going to end up with the most bruises. Definitely not Jack, because he wasn't already in trouble with the royal bloody guard. If Lyndon looked hard enough, he'd probably still be able to find a poor representation of his devastatingly handsome visage slapped onto a wanted poster somewhere. They didn't say "Dead or Alive" on them yet, last time he checked. Small mercies.

He doubted that 'hero by proxy' would be enough to protect him this time. He was just in far too much trouble on this side of the world to slip by unnoticed. Especially with all the attention the Demon Hunter tended to draw.

Though, he doubted that Jack would ever truly allow him to get arrested and thrown into prison. _He wouldn't, right?_ Maybe if the hunter knew about all the rotten things he'd done (you know, the usual theft and murder written in the finer details of his previous profession), maybe he would let him get arrested. Might even lock him up and throw away the key himself.

 _Shit_.

Lyndon stayed quiet after that, feelings more than a little bit hurt, and feeling more than a little bit apprehensive about what might or might not happen. Not that Jack cared, because he didn't care about anything except killing demons and being an ornery arse about it. _Prick_.

Speaking of arse, at least Jack had an incomparable one. Those dark leather trousers he wore hugged every curve, practically painted on him. _Definitely a ten_. He'd seen shabbier behinds on far prettier ladies, and Lyndon considered himself a connoisseur. Small mercies indeed. Ha. It was the little things that kept him going these days. Not that he'd been looking, mind you. And besides, even if he had, there wasn't any harm in just looking now was there? Ahh, but he could almost hear Eirena admonishing him in her cute accent now, _“the way you look, there is.”_

Really, someone who was such a raging son of a bitch (emphasis on the raging) shouldn't be in possession of such a pleasing asset (ha!). It was wasted on him.

Lyndon glared rather sullenly at the back of Jack's hood-covered head for what was probably a good mile, hoping he could somehow burn a hole right through the fabric― until he'd nearly tripped over his own feet and gone face-first into the leafy sludge. Again. He hoped it would get dark soon. If only so he could stop and have a well-deserved rest.

The wall that followed them gradually fell away, leaving little else but pebbles to spill into the empty path. It wasn't a narrow path Lyndon noted, perhaps a long forgotten carriage road, present on only the oldest of maps. The wood of the trees looked slimy in the dim fog. Somewhere in the mist, an owl trilled like the soft whinny of a lost horse. Or some sad ghost. Creepy country. Everything was just wet and creepy and disgusting looking. And _ahh, of course,_ he thought sourly, wiping cold moisture from his nose and moustache (his nose was running), _musn't forget the cherry that topped this little evening stroll: the dreadful bloody rain!_

The Demon Hunter didn't seem to care about that either. He probably fucking loved it, the prick. Lyndon sighed, and tried not to pine too hard for Caldeum's rather pleasant late autumn weather that they'd recently left behind. Arriving back in the great desert city after being in cold Mt. Arreat and Bastion's Keep for so long had been absolutely spectacular. Lyndon had enjoyed every single second of sunbathing, treasure hunting, and swiving. Apparently, there had still been lots to do there: demon hordes skulking about, cultists continuing their awful ways, and monsters crawling around everywhere. It was easy for them to swoop in and make a little extra coin on the side from the desperate Iron Wolves who were once again in charge of protecting the city. There were bounties to claim from one corner of the desert to the other, but the Wolves had neither the time nor the manpower to attend to them. That was where he and Jack came in.

It was a marvelous system, truly. Lyndon could still turn a tremendous profit from the bounties and looted treasure, fund his little indulgences, and save up gold to pay his brother's way to freedom. And if a significant chunk of coin found its way to his brother's family? Then that was all well and good. Oh, also that convenient bit about avoiding arrest simply by being associated with the Demon Hunter, that had been nice too.

Jack of course could continue hunting and killing his most favorite prey, keeping himself busy and properly grumpy. Their widespread travels gave them the golden opportunity to tell every person they could safely trust, from one corner of Sanctuary to the other, to keep their eyes peeled and contact them if they saw anything or heard something about that dreadful witch Adria.

 _Adria_.

Lyndon supposed that finding out where she'd promptly fucked off to after sacrificing her daughter to the Lord of Terror was the real goal behind all their little adventures. _Dreadful fucking wench._ He didn't dare ask Jack about her, the man was pissy enough as it was without having to speak of Adria in any great capacity. And truthfully, Lyndon really didn't even want to know, he just wanted to thrust a dagger into her eye and call things even. And as Jack had said, she really could be anywhere by now.

Ah, Leah. The poor girl. He really missed her, but it was probably best not to think of such things now. Or ever again.

 

=+=+=+=+=

 

Yep, Lyndon was pretty sure he was going to fucking die out here, and boredom was going to be what finally did him in. _'Bored to Death'_ it would perhaps read on his tombstone. ' _RIP Lyndon: Very Handsome and Wrongfully Slain by Ennui_.' Better, much better. He hoped Jack would be a good enough sport to take the time to carve his epitaph on a wooden cross or something. It was the least the Hunter could do for doing this to him.

When they'd decided to cross the narrow Twin Seas again to make their way to Westmarch, they'd unfortunately left Kormac and Eirena behind. Stuck here in the rain with Jack's nearly silent, sour company, Lyndon found that he missed them both rather fiercely.

Eirena had wanted to study magic in the Caldeum Library or some such thing. Try to find some creepy wizard willing to speak with her and help her learn to magic things into chickens faster or whatnot. Maybe she'd learn to turn things into other animals. Maybe kittens. That'd be much better. Kormac, of course, had mentioned that Eirena might need his protection and insisted on staying with her.

 _How honorable of him_ , Lyndon thought. That Templar was getting much bolder, he might even try to hold her hand next. Pffha!

Imagine Lyndon's surprise when Eirena actually agreed to let that miserable wet blanket accompany her. Dear Eirena was quite capable of taking care of her own sweet self, but Lyndon had definitely seen stranger things. Though, he imagined the poor girl had likely been bored to tears by now, listening to all of Kormac's sad drivel. That is if she could glean even a single fucking word from his pathetically sheepish mumbling. What a joke.

Jack had sent a message out to them a bit ago with the raven that sometimes followed them. Lyndon wasn't sure if it was some kind of pet or something but Jack fed it sometimes and it allowed him to touch it, so it probably was. How would that thing even reach Caldeum anyway? Would it fly over the ocean? Stow away on a ship? Whatever, he didn't care. The message told Kormac and Eirena to meet them in Westmarch in a few weeks' time, and the date was already fast approaching. The more he thought about it, the more Lyndon warmed to the idea of visiting the capitol. There would be good company, and it was better to visit there, he reasoned, than dive headfirst into the marvelous disaster he was expecting in Kingsport.

Really, he didn't mind putting it off, he was anxious enough about it as it was. The Thieves Guild would be out in force to kill him when they finally arrived in Kingsport, certainly, but hey! What were some ragged, slow-witted vagabonds in comparison to the denizens of the Burning Hells? Just about nothing really! And Lyndon had gotten better. Stronger. The larger part of a year spent killing nasty little creatures and their bigger, infinitely scarier siblings had made him much more skilled than he used to be. Most every thick-skulled nobody in the Guild could barely scrape enough brains together to complete even the simplest of jobs anyway. Lyndon was confident that he could at least outsmart them, and knowing all their tricks certainly helped. And Jack would be there, making sure he didn't get quietly murdered. Really, It wasn't like he was afraid to face Edlin or Rea again, he wasn't worried at all!

Frowning, Lyndon sniffed and wiped a bit of moisture off the end of his nose again, hitching his pack up a bit higher on his aching shoulders. Well... perhaps he was just a little bit worried. He'd made a lot of people very, very angry. One of his many talents. His brother probably hated him right now, and he knew Rea did. Why else wouldn't she answer his letters? He supposed they'd cross that bridge when they came to it (and then burn said bridge immediately after with lots and lots of fire, please and thank you). Sometimes he wondered how his friends Mousie and Markus were doing. Wondered if they missed him, thought he was dead, what have you. Mostly he thought about Edlin.

But really, he didn't want to think about any of those things right now anyway. It always made him feel like garbage.

Lyndon's mind whirred, struggling to hit upon some other roving thought to distract himself. Jack had been ignoring him for a while now, it had to have been at least an hour. _Hm hm hm._

“I'm tired.” Lyndon whined rather petulantly, hoping for a small scrap of something. Even an argument would be better than just.... silence.

“We'll stop at sundown and make camp. As we've done every evening for the past months, if you recall,” Jack answered crisply.

“Well... alright.” Lyndon didn't really have a retort for that, it was hard to keep a quick wit when one's travel companion lingered in a mood vile enough to make you feel guilty for even existing.

But then again... that just made it all the more fun to _antagonize_ him. Lyndon waited a moment, the few beats of quiet almost more than he could tolerate.

“My feet hurt!” Lyndon tried again, struggling to suppress a grin.

Jack's head half turned, but didn't quite twist around to look at the thief. “Do you speak so incessantly to escape the silence?” he pressed through audibly grit teeth.

Lyndon felt a sharp pang in his chest, like the words had hurt more than they were supposed to, but he dismissed the feeling as irritation. "Oh, I don't know, do you stay tight-lipped for hours and hours so that you can wallow in it?” he retorted with a sharp sniff.

Jack said nothing, continuing to bimble along through mud and leaves and whatever else scattered about their path. Relentless. Best to wait a bit before trying again. He didn't want a repeat of the other week when he'd made the Demon Hunter so furious with his casual chatter that the man had refused to speak to him for nearly a day. It had been agonizingly dull, a bit like it was now actually. He sighed.

Lyndon settled for humming a wordless melody, half remembered from... somewhere. Caldeum maybe. There was always music coming from the inns and taverns spread about that city. Kingsport too. He sighed, Gods he missed Kingsport. He missed _people_.

Speaking of their path, Lyndon could see those two terrible little weasel things bobbing about near his feet, keeping pace with his stride. One brown with white spots, the other white with brown spots. He always forgot about them until they popped up again, usually inside his satchel stinking up his things. They looked up at him when he looked down, whiskers twitching, pink noses sniffing, with little smiles on their wretched rat-like faces. He scowled at them. Where in the Burning Hells had they come from? Fucking... flea ridden... little... tube rats!

He resisted the urge to kick at them, knowing that Jack's already thin patience with him would surely snap, and he'd draw that pretty curved blade he kept and slice Lyndon's head clean from his shoulders. RIP in pieces, haha! The bright side of a swift death would be that he'd at least escape this wretched weather. That, and Jack had promised to bury him if he ending up dying. Maybe he'd get his death by boredom epitaph after all. Hell, getting murdered might be the best thing to happen to him all day!

Ahh, not that funny.

His stomach rumbled then and he frowned. He reached into his pocket for another piece of cured venison, something Jack had scraped together, having managed to kill a young stag. While decent tasting, they'd been eating it for over a week now and Lyndon was well sick of it. The small piece of cured meat felt cold and a bit slimy in his fingers, a side effect from his noticeably damp pockets. Lyndon was beginning to think that just about everything he owned was damp, but it was too cold and raw out to really tell.

When they would make camp in the evenings, Jack would sometimes disappear into the woods for a while, leaving Lyndon to his own devices. He would return silently, with pheasants or quails, rabbits sometimes, and most recently the young stag. Lyndon frequently volunteered to help (sometimes he got a little nervous being alone in the dangerous wilderness, not that he would ever admit it aloud) but Jack stated that his incessant chatter would probably scare all the animals away.

“ _I know how to be quiet you berk,”_ Lyndon had muttered irritably the night Jack had taken the stag.

“That's good, and you'll have even more time to practice while I'm gone,” Jack called over his shoulder before disappearing into the woods. A living shadow that Lyndon could not even hear as soon as he had gone out of sight. Privately, Lyndon thought that Jack made him stay behind to get some time away from him, which hurt his feelings a little bit, but he had come to accept that Jack needed his time alone. Hell, it gave Lyndon the opportunity to enjoy a little personal time with himself, so he supposed it was good for both of them. After brief relief, brought from a hurried turn of his wrist, Lyndon would spend the rest of this time tending the fire and staring wide eyed into the darkness, ever alert for the shuffling of a rotting undead thing or the pitter patter of little demon feet. Mostly, he felt rather lonely, and tried not to be too grateful that the small weasels usually stayed behind and kept him company. The bat Jack often let sleep in his pocket lingered too, chasing bugs drawn by the firelight. He was often too afraid to sleep until the Demon Hunter returned.

These small hunting excursions supplied them with enough food to keep them going, but Jack told him the local game had not been very plentiful since the demons had infiltrated the countryside. Even though their nasty presence was waning, the animals were slow to return. A pain for them, but likely much more dire for the villagers. Lyndon sometimes wondered if they were going hungry.

Their wealth and most of their possessions had been sent along with Haedrig so they wouldn't be seeing any of it until they met up with him. So New Tristram was actually their next stop before the capitol. He'd forgotten. Lyndon thought it very considerate of the Demon Hunter to provide the blacksmith with some decent work. Akarat knew that fixing their armor and equipment was a full time job with all the trouble they got themselves into. They had taken some money and supplies with them, but it was too cumbersome to travel with chests loaded with gold and jewels so they didn't have a large supply of coin to aid in filling their stomachs.

Lyndon still kept a healthy amount on his person, as was his habit, and he could always grab some more from someone else's pockets if he so desired. But he had also sent much of what he earned away to his brother's family, and for the debt, as he usually did. Surely they would have enough to live comfortably in a nice house in Kingsport by now? But no letters. Lyndon supposed he couldn't really blame her for not responding to him. He hated himself for what he'd done, too. Sometimes he even thought that it might be better this way, but that didn't make it hurt any less. How old would their children be by now? Would they have called him _Uncle_ Lyndon?

Well, it didn't matter did it? No point in dwelling on it. Should try to think of something else anyway.

Gods, he was hungry, he could just about murder a bowl of stew right about now. And a bottle of Red Hill. Fucking Hell. He stuffed the bit of slimy meat in his mouth and glared at the small cat snakes again.

The weird marmots, as if sensing Lyndon didn't want them around, picked up their bouncing pace and ran ahead to the Demon Hunter. Jack paused and stooped his great height just enough to scoop them up, one in each hand, and set them on his shoulders where they wriggled and crawled their way into his pack. Eugh. He is madder than a bag of ferrets carrying those filthy things around with his clothes. Ha. Is that what they're called? Whatever. They smelled.

Lyndon had the very distinct impression that Jack liked those small furry vermin more than he liked his very human and very charming and most-certainly-not-flea-bitten traveling companion. This thought only served to sour his mood further. He was going to need to think of something else before he really began to feel sorry for himself.

Lyndon sighed a little and looked up at the grey sky, the clouds impenetrable as armor. He cursed under his breath when an icy raindrop struck him directly in the eye. Lyndon hadn't quite been lying earlier, his feet really did hurt, and they were cold, also likely as damp as the rest of him. He really just wanted to sit in front of a nice, roaring fire somewhere with a pint of ale in one hand and something to eat in the other. Maybe even a cup of tea, that'd hit the spot. He blinked and rubbed his eyes and tried not to wish too hard for at least someone else out here for him to talk to.

 _Just where in the Burning Hell's had everyone else gone off to anyway?_ he thought. Shen, Tyrael, where had they gone? Not that he really missed them or anything. What was it Jack had said to him?

Ah, yes.

Tyrael was off doing his own secret business somewhere, Lyndon at least knew that. He could only guess as to what the Angel was truly up to and supposed he didn't care too much about what it was precisely. Something about the Soulstone, Jack had mentioned. The demon hunter had apparently taken his two day nap right through the meeting where they'd decided what they were going to do with it. Tyrael had thought it a happy accident. Minimize the number of people who knew its location and all that, which made it rather obvious that it was probably hidden somewhere on Sanctuary. Lyndon honestly didn't much care, he just hoped they'd never see that stupid nasty demon rock again. The thing really gave him the willies.

What was Tyrael going to do after that? Would they ever see him again? Eh, Lyndon found it a bit strange, for being an Angel he was really rather boring. Everyone had told him that Tyrael was this great warrior, and he could fight certainly, but he just seemed.... Lost, maybe. Lyndon couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe he was still learning how to eat correctly or something. Still getting his "mortal-legs" as it were.

Shen had run off... somewhere, promising that he'd find them again at some point. Lyndon had actually been rather sad to see him go. He genuinely liked the eccentric jeweler. They often swapped stories about women, one of his favorite topics, and one he couldn't really get away with discussing with many others without someone yelling at him for it. What Lyndon liked even better was that the ancient Xiansanese Jeweler actually paid him for the various gems he brought back from his frequent "errands."

Haedrig, that's who he missed the most. His reliable drinking companion and the first friend he had made among their ragtag group of adventurers. Gone home to New Tristram. Lyndon assumed the blacksmith had wanted to be somewhere familiar and see how the town was getting on. He also had to tell everyone who was left in that godsforsaken little hamlet the sad story of what had become of Leah. Another grave to place flowers upon. For such a small village, New Tristram had a rather disproportionately enormous cemetery.

Lyndon frowned and glanced into the darkening forest again. He really didn't want to think about Leah or any of that mess right now. Gods, why couldn't he just think of something nice?! He glared at the back of Jack's head again. Maybe it was because Mister Sunshine and Happiness drained all the joy out of the (admittedly gloomy) atmosphere within a two mile radius. _Prick_.

At least New Tristram probably wasn't much further. That was good, some agreeable company to look forward to. Lyndon was glad of this, he hated drinking alone, and he was pretty sure he was starting to hate Jack too. Just a little.

Well, maybe just his rotten mood.

 

=+=+=+=

 

The sun― or what Lyndon assumed was the sun, he couldn't really see it through the wall of dreadful clouds ―was hanging low in the sky, dipping beneath the row of trees like the slowed descent of a diving water bird. Wouldn't be long now, a fire to warm him and then he'd bury himself in thin blankets that were never heavy enough to be truly comfortable atop his lumpy sleep roll, trying to pretend he was in a real bed and his balled up duster he would clutch was another person. Couldn't fucking wait.

After a while of thinking about little in particular, Lyndon had the sudden thought that he hadn't actually looked at the map in at least three days now. He had no idea where they were. He wasn't sure if they'd even seen another person in over a week. Not even a highway man trying to relieve them of their possessions to liven things up.

He looked around; the forest was even darker now with craggy trees tilting towards them, meeting in a grim skeletal canopy above their heads. Wouldn't it be dark soon? Lyndon wasn't stupid, had he been alone he would have traveled the main roads. Much safer that way. Far better to contend with the odd incompetent robber than with whatever nasty beasts crawled about the forests. Of course, when your traveling companion was an accomplished demon slayer, you generally didn't have much to worry about from the local fauna. It seemed he'd been relying on Jack far too much to lead them around though, and that apparently meant taking empty, creepy back roads away from people and taverns where one could relax with a drink or five and a lady or three. He supposed the Demon Hunter at least seemed to know where they were going.

_Gods, what was his fucking problem anyway?_

Lyndon frowned at the back of the hunter's head again, a black bobbing vision he'd probably see burned right into his eyelids when he went to sleep that night. Other people were usually easy for Lyndon to read and interpret, but he just couldn't seem to figure Jack out. Every time he thought he had a grasp on who he was, the hunter would do something that utterly baffled him.

Jack had practically given him a stroke by making that promise to help get his brother out of the Kingsport's prison and pay off the Merchant's Guild Bank. Even though they had been through much together, Lyndon still had trouble accepting that the Demon Hunter was willing to give so much to him and want absolutely nothing in return. Everyone wanted something, that's just how it was. Nothing was ever free. Lyndon hadn't expected anything from Jack, what had possessed (ha) the hunter to offer such a thing? Their claim to friendship was tenuous at best. Lyndon had been certain right up until that fateful promise that Jack tolerated him at best, and at worst, absolutely despised him.

If that were truly the case, then why did Jack make that promise? Why was Lyndon even here right now traveling with him for practically the third month in a row? If there was one thing Jack wasn't shy about, it was hatred. He wouldn't have asked Lyndon to come along if he hated him now would he? He just couldn't understand.

It was nice of Jack, sure, but the scoundrel's troubles seemed woefully insignificant when compared to demons and angels fighting each other in some great eternal war then trying to kill everyone else and destroy Sanctuary. Oh hey, remember when that happened? A lovely little visit to fucking _Heaven_ and killing seven demon lords crammed into one disgusting body? Lyndon certainly didn't, or at least he tried really, really hard to forget it. Sometimes he did so well it almost seemed like a bad dream, but the cold reality of Leah's painful absence always woke him right up again.

Best to unremember as much of that wonky nastiness as much as he was able.

Their impossible victory in the Silver City of course meant that the Demon Hunter was some kind of magical freak, or a wizard, or a bloody god. A Nephalem? What the fuck was that anyway? Jack hadn't seemed like much of a god after he'd keeled arse over tit onto the floor and nearly died after killing Diablo. That two day nap... Lyndon had actually been a little worried about him. Just a little though, definitely not a lot.

Apparently, being a Nephalem meant that you were a tireless prickly bastard every single day of your life, mingled with the occasional act of obscene, selfless kindness.

He'd even been nice to Lyndon when he'd broken his brother's crossbow and gotten ah, _really_ upset. How humiliating. He'd been tired, and hungry, he hadn't meant to get upset. It had been a low moment. Lyndon liked to think that it hadn't actually happened, but the refurbished crossbow currently resting at his back and endlessly accumulating some kind of magic ice on its stock that he had to diligently scrape off at least once a day argued differently.

Lyndon just wasn't very good at accepting such grand acts of generosity, especially not after growing up in a world where he'd been forced to bite and claw for everything he had. There was always a catch or a string attached, and he almost wanted to demand what in the Burning Hells Jack thought he was doing and what he wanted from him.

Nobody had ever been this nice to him before, at least not since he was a boy

Then why act like an enormous arsehole _now_? It was a wretched puzzle to be sure. For all his skill with those strange little crossbows Lyndon wasn't allowed to touch, the sullen Demon Hunter wasn't very good at explaining his reasons. Or expressing his feelings.

Really, he just wasn't very good at communication in general.

Lyndon liked it if he were the one doing most of the talking anyway. He liked to talk, his brother used to joke that he'd talk to a piece of shit or a dead rat if there wasn't anyone else around. Lyndon supposed that wasn't too far from the truth.

It had never been just the two of them before, at least not for so long. There was always someone else around Lyndon could talk to when Jack didn't feel like talking (which was most of the time). Even Kormac could be amusing if Lyndon got him going.

Jack often complained that he talked too much, but Lyndon just didn't want to feel like he was alone. He would do just about anything to stave off the feelings of guilt, loneliness and uselessness that threatened to suffocate him when he had too much quiet time to think. It was better when he kept his mind (or even better, his body) occupied as often as possible, and if that meant spitting out whatever meaningless drivel popped into his head then so be it.

"Say, where are we?" he blurted suddenly, escaping the mess of his thoughts. He felt like he was in some enclosed space where time refused to move. It was just twilight, and trees. Rain and shadows. A black, hood-clad, bobbing head a permanent fixture ahead of him that he never got any closer to.

"Khanduras," Jack said immediately, as though he'd been waiting all along for Lyndon to ask something.

"Akarat's balls, I know that!” Lyndon hissed, eyes rolling skyward, “I mean where, _specifically_."

Jack came to a slow stop, turned, and actually looked at him. "Uhm."

"Gods, are we lost?" He was going to fucking scream if they were. Just scream forever.

"No," Jack said quickly and unfolded the map he kept in a pocket somewhere. He stepped under the meagre protection of an adjacent oak tree so that the map would not be dripped upon, then squinted at it, brow furrowed. Lyndon followed, because even a brief moment out of the rain would be one he would cherish. Lyndon watched as a number of strange, distressing expressions flickered over the hunter's face, _recognitionangerregretfear_ , but surely he'd imagined or misinterpreted the last one. They were gone in a moment anyway, smoothed over into that vaguely blank and bored expression Lyndon was so used to.

"We are about two miles east of Holbrook. Still heading due West, to Westmarch," Jack said, holding out the map and a well-worn compass for Lyndon's inspection.

"Don't you mean _marching_ due west to Westmarch? Ahaha!"

Nothing. Not even a smirk. Tough crowd.

"Tristram first, right?"

"Right."

"And Haedrig?"

A sigh, barely a breath of soft annoyance. "Yes."

"Is Holbrook a town on the main road?" Lyndon pressed his luck with his questions, craning his head to look at the map again, hardly able to contain the excitement in his voice. _A town!_

"Yes." Jack didn't sound happy about any of it, but he'd been a bloody prick for days now, so Lyndon thought little of it.

 _Towns following the main roads always had inns! Brilliant!_ Lyndon felt his mood improve considerably.

 

=+=+=+=

 

Honestly, Jack hadn't always been such wretched company.

Even if Lyndon was doing most of the talking, they did rather well together if he did say so himself. Their shared affinity for ranged weapons really helped grease the wheels of conversation during times like these. It was the only subject Jack was willing to speak about at length. Lyndon had taken what he could get at the time, but had to admit that their little chats had revealed some rather interesting things:

Lyndon had only seen some of the contents of Jack's bag in stolen glances, and it had piqued his curiosity to nigh unbearable levels, but he was unwilling to risk the Demon Hunter's temper by looking through his things in any great detail. The observant bastard would probably know. The few items he had seen in passing glances had been strange: bones, vials of dark red liquid he assumed to be blood, clumps of fur and hair tied with string. Something that looked like a flap of scaly skin, chalk, charcoal pencils, ink, a fucking dog's skull. Or perhaps a wolf's or some other wild beast. Things he might expect to be among the contents of a Witch's purse.

Through his usual persistence, his curiosity had eventually been rewarded. Since bows and arrows had become such a hot topic of casual conversation, Lyndon eventually learned that most of those strange items were for but one purpose; crafting his deadly bolts. And since then, Lyndon had spent many a dark night out in the wilderness, shoulder to shoulder with the other man, watching in quiet amazement while Jack showed him the rituals and meticulously gathered materials he used to enchant his weapons.

And somehow, the most surprising and interesting thing of all, this had led to Jack attempting to teach him:

"Since we have the time, and we're going to be working together," Jack had told him soon after they'd left Bastion's Keep, "I might as well teach you. Somewhat dangerous, but a very valuable skill, especially for an Arbalist."

" _Fucking_!— What's that?!" Lyndon shouted, distracted by stinging snow blowing into his eyes with all the force of a seaside hurricane.

"What?"

"An arba... what's-it. What is that?"

Jack looked at him like he was stupid, hair whipping wildly in the wind like a flock of black winged birds. "An Arbalist. Someone who uses a crossbow. You should know this."

"Well, no one ever told me!"

A sigh. "Now you know."

"Wait, so you mean I can learn to put fire and lightning and whatnot on arrows as I please? Like you do?" Lyndon had asked, looking for clarification. It all sounded a bit far-fetched to him. Though he supposed Angels and Demons sounded far-fetched at first too, and of course he knew how that turned out.

"Eventually, yes." Jack seemed to consider something then, brow furrowing. "Though, perhaps you should just watch at first."

"How are you so certain that I can do this, I mean, don't you have be uh, magic or something?" Lyndon had always just assumed the Demon Hunter could because he was a Nephawhatever.

"Do we not use the land, the water, the beasts? The tools are here before you, anyone can do this. It comes easier for some, harder for others, but the craft can be learned like any skill."

"Oh."

_Wicked!_

"Ahh, no need to explain, I see what you're trying to say. I'm magical," Lyndon proclaimed breezily.

"Ehh, no more than anyone else, likely less."

" _Hey_!"

Later, when they'd made camp for the evening in some godsforsaken frigid cave, (one that Lyndon was pretty sure was used as a burial chamber for ancient barbarians, but was admittedly rather cozy once they'd settled in) Jack made a fire at the cave's mouth with bits of old wood and went over the steps needed for enchantment with Lyndon as his interested audience.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Lyndon had asked, watching with a grimace while Jack pushed a razor sharp blade against the meat of his large palm and cut deep enough to draw blood. Jack squeezed his fist tightly and let it drip steadily over the hefty stack of new arrows.

 _Eugh_.

"No." Jack's hair, cut to chin length the other day by Eirena, made a rather effective black curtain that obscured his profile, save the tip of his hawkish nose.

"...Alright.”

Lyndon blinked, observing, and pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. "Must you always bleed all over your own arrows, every single time you enchant them?"

"Only a little, and only for shadow magic. A few drops is enough to make many, though I admit it has been a while since I have needed to replenish my supply." The stack of arrows began to exude a familiar deep black smoke tinged with a sinister red light.

Lyndon had cut himself on accident a thousand different times learning to fight with knives, but didn't look forward to actually hurting himself on purpose. Jack's crossbows looked normal enough despite the enhancements he'd placed on them. The real power was in the arrows he made.

"You won't be learning anything like this so you don't have to worry much about it."

Well, if he was going to say _that_ , now Lyndon was interested.

"Why not?"

"Because it is shadow magic, demonic in origin." Jack flicked blue eyes up to his briefly. "Dangerous."

"I mean, I could use the arrows you've already made―"

"No. I don't even want you touching them."

“But why not?” Lyndon argued. “They're so much better than mine and if you made them it would probably be alright because―” _Because that's what you are isn't it? A demon? Half demon? Dangerous?_

“No. It takes a lot of training to resist Hell's corruption, and for most people it cannot be learned at all. I would not have you hurt by my lack of responsibility.” Jack continued, unyielding, "just... pretend they're poisonous or something and do me the courtesy of leaving them alone."

"But I _use_ poison arrows," Lyndon added, failing to hide a smile.

"Please don't be obstinate."

Lyndon laughed.

Had it been anyone else, Lyndon would have likely argued until he was blue in the face, but when it was Jack he found it easier to accept that the Demon Hunter knew better than he did. If only for this _particular_ subject. He was also a bit surprised when Jack more or less admitted he cared about him. Really, Lyndon was just happy they were having a conversation that seemed to be lasting longer than five minutes.

The thief had often thought back on this time, wondering how Jack had managed to be patient enough to teach him things and at the same time answer the endless stream of questions Lyndon had been compelled to ask him. Thankfully, despite being rather impatient in everything else he did, the Demon Hunter seemed to genuinely enjoy teaching.

“Why doesn't everyone make weapons and whatnot this way? If it's so much better?” Lyndon asked curiously.

“You have to kill demons to acquire the materials,” Jack explained, inspecting the now smoking bolts one by one, then putting them carefully away into his quiver. “Not many are willing or even able. Hellspawn have been few and far between, until recently. They were more common long ago.”

“Oh.”

“This why Haedrig's particular skill is in such high demand. He is one of only a few craftsmen left who is familiar with the old ways.”

Lyndon smiled and nudged the hunter's knee playfully. “Only the best for us, yeah?”

Jack indulged him with a rare smirk which manifested as no more than a wry twist of his lips. “Yeah.”

"Is there anyone besides Haedrig who knows how to make them?” Lyndon pressed, eager to keep the conversation going.

“A smith in Kurast, a barbarian woman named Charsi. Supposedly she kept company with the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye before she left to cross the seas, but I have never met her.”

“I've been to Kurast,” Lyndon offered, pulling his hood up over his head and getting comfortable in front of the fire. There was something familiar about that name, but he couldn't place it or dredge up the memory. Honestly, he'd met a lot of women in Kurast, everywhere really, but not even a single name would come to him. “I don't think I remember a blacksmith,” he finished a bit awkwardly. “Who else?”

“I imagine some Viz'jerei mages can. A handful of Necromancers, Eirena knows many minor weapon enchants,” Jack rattled off, smudging the sigil he'd drawn into the snow and carefully picking up his leftover materials. "Some fletchers in the Dreadlands."

“Other Demon Hunters?”

“Yes.”

“Friends of yours?”

Jack paused at that, as though he had to think on the meaning of the word. “I suppose,” he said eventually. Their talk shriveled and died after that, and sleep followed shortly after.

Lyndon was a little disappointed at the loss of the infinitely more interesting shadow arrows, but Jack more than made up for it by teaching him how to make grenades, bola shots and some explosive traps, and of course, elemental arrows were promised to follow. Lyndon had to admit it was most interesting. It kept him busy. It was exciting. It was _fun_.

Nothing demonic though, no shadow. The hunter would not be swayed on that.

 

=+=+=+=+=

 

 In time, they left the frozen slopes of Mt. Arreat and put the western kingdoms behind them in exchange for a pleasant boat ride across the seas, which delivered them into the warmth of Caldeum's gentler late autumn sun. Lyndon had lost most of the warm tan color of his skin from their time in the north, having gone all pale like the soft underbelly of a fish, or like something lying dead in a cave. He was eager to be baked by the heat of the sun until the thought of snow and cold was nothing more than a shriveled dream.

They settled in the now not-so-hidden camp once more, Kormac and Eirena joining them there. And it was fun for a while, the four of them helping to clean up the great desert city and the surrounding country. Soon there was little left to do and Eirena and Kormac spent more time in the great library than out of it, and the Demon Hunter's enchanting lessons resumed. This time with Lyndon's full participation.

"We'll start with ice first, I think that will be easiest, and they might work better with your crossbow now." Jack explained, drawing a chalk circle upon a flat rock, then filling it with lines, other circles and strange arcane symbols Lyndon had never seen before. _Was he supposed to draw that?_

A few yards away, the young merchant girl "Squirt" watched them skeptically from the front of her unfolded shop wagon, hands firmly planted upon her small hips, blonde hair braided and draped over one bare, sun-kissed shoulder. She had started wearing her hair that way ever since Leah had braided it for her their last visit. It felt like a lifetime ago. The thought caused a small pang in Lyndon's chest, so he quickly moved on from it.

Squirt was joined by another young girl, one they had discovered in the cellar of an abandoned home on their last visit. Larra, her name was. Lyndon remembered this time. For being a couple of snot-nosed little brats, they were alright. More easily tolerated than most children he'd met, and they were clever too; Lyndon liked that. He was glad to see that they both seemed to be doing well. Thick as thieves. It was good to find someone to stick with and watch your back when you lived on the street, and especially when you ran your very own lucrative and somewhat illegal merchant business. Ha!

Gods knew they ought to be doing well, what with all the gold Jack dumped on them in return for minor repairs and useless trinkets he usually wouldn't have looked at twice. The Demon Hunter was probably their best customer on this sandy little plateau. He never asked where they got their wares from and neither did Lyndon. They agreed that sometimes it was just best not to know.

Why the pair had decided to keep their shop here was a mystery to most, since there were so many more customers to be had within Caldeum's great Bazaar, but Lyndon had immediately guessed that half the goods were stolen or “rare.” It was smarter for the girls to look for a more unique clientele here, outside the border of the city's walls and away from the watchful eyes of the Iron Wolves. There were other merchants here too, mostly of ill repute, but Lyndon felt more at ease here than he ever would have in the crowded Bazaar.

Nothing like a bit of ill-gotten gain to make him feel right at home, thick as thieves indeed.

When Jack had told the young merchant pair what had become of Leah, both girls had cried, Larra more painfully and openly than Squirt, who'd put on a brave face and scrubbed her tears away with all the violence of a thrown fist. Neither Jack nor Lyndon had known what to say to comfort them. It had been distinctly awful. The Demon Hunter disappeared for a while after that, and Lyndon had spent the night at the Searing Sands Inn within the city. He played cards with the locals (with some sleight of hand thrown in to keep things from growing too dull), and indulged in the sweet smoky relaxation of hookah pipes that tasted of fine sugared cherry, making every breath sweeter than the one before it. The hours had dwindled away through round after round of tequila shots until he could confidently say he'd forgotten his own sadness and guilt, and indeed could confidently say a great deal many other things.

How well it had actually worked, he couldn't quite puzzle out the following morning, nursing a debilitating hangover (why, oh why did he always pick tequila? _Stupid_ ) and avoiding the Demon Hunter's annoyed gaze, which really was just the normal way his face _always_ looked, but there were other distractions to be had, and if he hadn't forgotten it by now, he would soon enough.

"It would be advantageous for you to memorize this, but you can use mine as a reference for now," Jack said, standing and dusting white, powdery sand from his knees. The only concessions the hunter made to the heat were to lose the heavy black cloak he always wore, and to sweep the mess of hair out of his face. Lyndon was stripped down to his favorite cream tunic and trousers and was considering losing the tunic altogether. He thought to mention to Jack that he might be happier with that thick black hair up off his neck, but didn't fancy another boring argument about “minding his own business.” Whatever. If he was going to be so insistently stubborn than he could sweat and suffer.

The chalk sigil drawn upon the rock practically glowed in the light of the beating sun. He handed Lyndon the piece of chalk. "Try."

Lyndon stared at the chalk stick like it might bite him, there was a light breeze and the clime was just about perfect, here in the desert warmth, ice was the furthest thing from his mind. "You know, I'm not a very good artist," he said, kneeling in front of the rock and drawing a somewhat wobbly circle to the left of Jack's, then another closer to the center of the first.

"But your handwriting is very neat."

Lyndon beamed, flattered. "Why thank you!"

"This isn't much different than writing."

Lyndon caressed his mustache with pointer finger and thumb, frowning at the pile of complex looking shapes and symbols to the right of his own soon-to-be shoddy chalk disaster. "I'll take your word for it."

After several exceedingly painful minutes of intense concentration, scrubbing away bits he'd botched up, and Jack doing a very poor job of pretending he wasn't looking over his shoulder— Lyndon stood up, rubbed the crick out of his neck, and inspected his work.

Squirt chose that moment to wander over, no doubt intrigued, with Larra trailing behind her. One of the awful weasel things was cradled in Larra's arms while the other bounced along at her feet. The girl spoiled those furry beasts, there'd be no living with them after this. The four of them looked between each circle, comparing them. Lyndon felt that his was... well, not _great_ but alright, not as nice as Jack's certainly, but the symbols that needed to be there were there (probably) and that's what mattered, right?

"Well, it's not very _good_ is it?" Squirt offered critically, a frown firmly planted upon her little face.

Lyndon rolled his eyes. "And I suppose _you_ think you could do better?!" he squawked.

“I bet I could!” Squirt insisted.

“Well _I_ bet I could run your sorry little excuse for a business right into the ground, girl! You can't steal for shit!” Lyndon hissed, and the furious look on her face was worth everything.

Jack tapped Lyndon's foot with the toe of his boot firmly, then shook his head at him when Lyndon looked, as if to say ' _we don't fight with children.'_ Lyndon glared back at him, _arse_ , he could fight with whoever he pleased!

“Oh, pay him no mind Squirt, I like our shop,” Larra offered gently, rocking the nasty rat thing in her arms like an overly spoiled baby. _Wretched._

"And a fine shop it is.” Jack directed at the girls, inspecting Lyndon's sigil with an unblinking critical eye. “Respectable business practices will earn you a reputation more valuable than gold," he said, effectively dispelling the argument.

Jack caught Lyndon's eye again."You'll improve with regular practice."

"Great, thanks, just tell me it's rubbish already," Lyndon said with a sullen air, settling himself into the warm sand so he could sulk more comfortably.

"It is only your first try," Jack amended. “They say that ten thousand hours is enough to master any skill.”

Lyndon tipped his head back, throwing his face towards the sun and groaned, "Gods, are you serious? That's like... for-fucking- _ever_!"

“Lyndon!” Jack hissed, eyes darting to the girls. “They're _ten_.”

“I'm eleven!” Squirt said insistently, while Larra smiled rather indulgently at her.

“Oh, who cares how old they are? They already curse all the time, isn't that right ladies?”

“You're damn right we do!” the girls chimed in unison.

“Ha!”

And so it went that Lyndon re-drew the circle and its accompanying symbols at least twelve more times (with much complaining, because who wouldn't) before he managed to get it right. The girls had long since gone to nap somewhere in the shade, something Lyndon desperately wished he was also doing. Feeling the beginning of a sunburn on the back of his neck, he was finally, _finally_ ready (with Jack's graciously received approval) to move ahead and actually try to use the wretched sigil to actually fucking enchant something.

“Remember, it isn't about creating what isn't there, you're just using the symbols as a way to draw it out of hiding, changing its direction, convincing it to attach to something else,” Jack explained, in that ridiculously cryptic and unhelpful way of his.

“What does that even mean?” Lyndon asked, annoyed and tired by this point.

“It means you're tricking the elements to sit on your arrows instead of wherever else they'd like to go,” Jack said.

“Well why didn't you just say that then?”

A sigh. “Because I enjoy repeating myself.”

"Ha, too right," Lyndon said with a cheeky grin, then piled a few fresh bolts in the center of the sigil.

There wasn't any blood or hair or nasty demon bits this time, just a fine blue powder in a vial that glittered and smelled rather oddly when he gave an experimental sniff, a bit like the smell before a thunderstorm. He tipped the vial over a few times, watching it sparkle prettily in the sunlight.

“I just pour this on top then?” Lyndon asked, and not for the first time, he was worried he might have forgotten the instructions again.

“Yes. With intent,” Jack said.

“What's ' _with intent_ ' mean?”

“It means that you think about making ice arrows while you pour the powder over the bolts.”

“You know, it might help if you just spoke commonly like everybody else, instead of in some bizarre cipher,” Lyndon offered irritably.

“Forgive me for assuming that you were already well-versed in doublespeak.”

If that wasn't a deliberate jab, then Lyndon didn't know what was,“I suppose I'm just not as _smart_ as you,” he deflected. _You cryptic fuck._

Another sigh, this time infused with an air of general impatience. “Just pour the powder and don't forget to think about what you're trying to make.”

“What if I wanted to make a nice icy bed to sleep on instead?” Lyndon teased, “It's terribly hot out here and long past my nap time.”

“Lyndon, _please_.”

“Alright, alright! Gods, you're so boring,” he muttered, then leaned away as he up-ended the vial over the arrows, as though he were afraid some of it might get on him.

He sat there, tired and hot, thinking quite hard about nice icy arrows— and shaved ice with sweet lemon or lime syrup that Kingsport always had for sale in the summer months. Nice as the desert heat could be, he'd kill for even a spoonful of it. He thought of a cool dip in a pool of crystalline water, or a swim in the ocean, and then a long nap afterwards on an empty dock with the tide rolling in beneath him. Seagulls calling, maybe even a pretty girl to swim with. _Skinny dipping._ _That'd be nice too, but oh, shit. Right. Arrows, arrows, icy bloody arrows!_ It wouldn't do to become distracted and likely have to start all over again. _Cold things._ Bastion's Keep came to mind immediately, of running around on the ramparts wishing he'd had a pair of mittens at least, fingers so cold he could hardly fire his crossbow, and he'd complained enough that Jack eventually waited with him while he warmed himself, teeth chattering, by a recently lit signal fire. In hindsight, it had been the coldest weather he'd ever experienced, and as the memory came to him, the sigil upon the rock seemed to begin to subtly increase in brightness. Either that, or he was suffering the sudden onset of a sun sickness.

But between one breath and the next, the insistent glow changed to a soft blue and the very air seemed to cool around them all at once. Lyndon's breath steamed in front of his face, and he could see frost creeping slowly over the rock's surface and forming on the arrow points. He was stunned silent.

_It— had it actually worked?_

Unthinkingly, he picked up one of the frosty bolts, and the chill of it numbed the tips of his fingers. He felt a silly grin spread over his face and he looked up at the Demon Hunter and found him smiling too. Jack had a very nice smile with nice teeth Lyndon noted, but he couldn't remember if he'd ever seen him do it before.

“And you said I wasn't magical,” Lyndon whispered, almost breathless with the excitement of what he'd managed to do.

“I lied,” Jack said.

And they existed there, smiling at each other like loons.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=

 

Lyndon blinked and the daydream faded. He was once more in Khanduras in the wet foggy forest, following Jack like a stray dog, hoping for a scrap of positive attention. A far cry from the amiable back and forth they'd kept up even just a few short weeks ago.

Maybe he was just being silly about all this, Jack wouldn't have bothered to do all those nice things for him if he didn't genuinely like him. The Demon Hunter was just bad at being friendly.

Maybe he was just upset about something, though exactly _what_ Lyndon could only guess. They never talked about Diablo or Leah or any of that. Jack had seemed to really like her, more than he seemed to like most people anyway, and as far as Lyndon had been able to tell, she had really liked Jack too. Hell, the whole time they'd traveled together, Lyndon had half expected that they were going to end up together. The true romantic happy-sappy ending that you read about in fairy tale storybooks, almost sweet enough to make him sick.

Maybe that was it? Not that Lyndon was going to bring that up, he wasn't a bloody idiot. _"Hey Jacky, curious, are you being such a spectacular bastard lately because you're upset about the gruesome death of our mutual friend?"_ Yeah. That'd go over brilliantly.

Something else perhaps?

A real bloody mystery to be sure, and it wasn't like Lyndon could just ask him what the matter was, now could he? He'd probably clam up and make it awkward and never speak to Lyndon again. A stupid idea.

Lyndon glanced at the back of Jack's head again. He seemed to look alright, at least, he didn't look any worse as the days went on. He'd always had dark circles under his eyes, sure, and there wasn't the slow deterioration he'd observed while they'd been at Bastion's keep, fighting demons for days on end with less than six hours of sleep between them. Still, Jack seemed tired, drawn somehow when he shouldn't have been. It wasn't like wandering around in the wilderness was difficult, at least it wasn't when compared to what they'd been doing the past couple of months.

Maybe he was just hungry and angry because of it. _Hangry, ha!_

Jack must have also been cold, wet and miserable, just the same as Lyndon was (how could he fucking not, he would have to be inhuman) but he never said a word to indicate that he was anything other than " _fine._ ” But the black mood followed him like a storm cloud, shitting all over his hollow, insistent reassurances. Lyndon could not be sure if the other man even slept at all, even though he had hardly left the other's side in weeks. Jack was always still awake when Lyndon dropped off to sleep and was up and about long before Lyndon could even begin to contemplate dragging himself out of his bedroll every morning. Sometimes, Lyndon thought Jack might just be setting his bedroll on the ground simply to keep up a veil of normalcy, just to ease Lyndon's small worries.

Even with more dark business looming ahead of them, Lyndon felt good to be back in the forests, meadows and moors he was so familiar with. Many of their recent days had consisted of trekking through misty green fields, over rock walls, and sprawling sheep-speckled farmland. The spidery dark forests that fenced the land went on and on forever. The one they were in currently bordered the eastern shore of the Gulf of Westmarch and moisture from the cold, steel-colored ocean dampened every corner. It was just miles of this. Miles and miles of cold, foggy, wet country. Lyndon didn't like the wet and cold part so much, and this certainly wasn't Kingsport's sapphire blue seas, sunny shores and grass-frosted dunes, but after spending so long in burning deserts, the frozen north, and even Hell itself, it was definitely good to be home.

It was twilight now, the sun gone from view, but there was enough light to still see by. Ahead the forest opened up and dwindled, and Lyndon held his breath, expecting trickery, expecting another impenetrable wall of black trees to slog through, but Akarat's blessed _balls_ , it seemed they'd finally reached the end of it. Seven long, wet days traveling through it and Lyndon's suffering was almost over because there would be a fucking _town_!

A small group of deer, four or five, pranced into the forest upon seeing them enter the field, leaping high over a crumbling, moss-covered rock wall that bordered the treeline. The most animals they had seen in one place for a long time. Lyndon's stomach growled, and he again thought about how hungry he was, and how little food they had left. The taste of cured venison was no longer as appealing as it had once been and Lyndon's stomach growled for hot stew, fresh bread and most importantly, good wine.

As they crested the hill at the end of the field, they could see the warm lights of a small village about a mile from where they stood. Lyndon was beyond relieved. "Ah! Oh thank Akarat! Our troubles are over!"

Just then, as if in direct opposition to his exuberance, the light rain they had been in all week grew noticeably heavier, fat drops striking the already waterlogged soil.

“Fuck!” He was so eager to reach beckoning warmth of the village that he almost forgotten his annoyingly grim companion.

“Lyndon, where are you going?” Jack asked him with what sounded like genuine curiosity. _Hilarious!_

“Where am I- ugh, to that fucking town, _obviously_ , what are you still standing around for?!” Lyndon shouted, then again when Jack didn't make any move to follow. He could barely see through the heavy rainfall and could feel the cold water soaking into his hair uncomfortably. _Great._

"We're not staying here, we'll stop at the next town," Jack said, his voice taking on an icy tone, then, amazingly, _he turned away_.

 _What_ — _What in the burning Hells?_

"Excuse me Jacky. Did I hear you correctly? Because I do believe you just said, that even though there is a town right down there, with an Inn that has a roof, and food, and warm beds, and cozy fires that actually produce heat, you want to camp outside again in this shit rain with no food and wet clothes, and freeze and possibly catch our deaths?" Lyndon listed with as much sarcasm as he could possibly inject.

"Yes," Jack said, deadpanned, utterly serious.

Lyndon's face screwed up in fury, unable to believe it. "Just what is your bloody problem anyway?!"

Jack inclined his head, as though listening more intently than he had been before, and narrowed his eyes. "No problem, it just isn't safe." A dark mood seemed to have swiftly enveloped the hunter for no apparent reason, unless the rain had upset Jack more than it had Lyndon, which Lyndon highly fucking doubted.

" _Safe_? Are you stupid or something?!" Lyndon spluttered, amazed, "it's a town, with _walls_. Not a corpse infested cemetery or a cave filled with nasty little demons. We're in more danger standing here outside than we would be in there!" he insisted. "Did I mention the part about the cozy fires and _food_?"

"I have my reasons."

"How cryptic. What are they then?"

Jack didn't say anything, instead he scanned the horizon and the path leading away into another nightmarish looking patch of forest with the same inscrutable facial expression he always wore.

“You know what _else_ isn't safe?” Lyndon rattled on, edging beneath the meager protection of a nearby oak tree and shaking water from his coat, “Getting a lung fever from the damp, lingering for a few months, then dying before being dumped into a shallow grave.”

Jack eyed the merrily blinking lights of Holbrook with open contempt. "You'll live. Forget it. Let's keep moving, it's getting dark."

Lyndon was getting tired of secrets, tired of guessing and tired of walking on eggshells around him. Water was dripping into his boots from his soaked pants, and he just wanted to get inside and sit by a roaring fire for the rest of the evening and he'd be thrice _damned_ if this grim, sour-faced bastard was going to keep that from him. If Jack wasn't going to give Lyndon any real answers then he could just piss right the fuck off.

Lyndon grit his teeth and began to pace. “Oh no. No, no, no, no _no_.”

"No?" Jack's eyebrows rose slightly as if he couldn't quite absorb the statement.

“Yeah, fucking _no_ , you great scarecrow, I'm not doing it!”

“Doing what?”

“Sleeping outside, in _this_!” he gestured emphatically at the sky. “It isn't fair!”

"Life isn't fair. You don't always get every little desire met."

"I just want to be warm, and dry and sleep in a real bed, is that such an egregious luxury? Out of all the things I usually pine after, is this really such a selfish thing to ask for?!"

"Sometimes it is," Jack said. “Besides, it wouldn't be a good time,” he added awkwardly.

“Right, because it's been a real laugh a minute up til now, who are you trying to convince?”

“I mean... we will not be well received,” the hunter amended.

“But _why_?”

“It's not something you'd understand.”

Lyndon certainly _didn't_ understand, none of this made any sense, but he was now too frustrated to bother trying to puzzle through it, unable to muster up the energy to even care. He was cold, he was wet, he was _angry_.

“How am I supposed to understand anything when all you do is sit in your own dark little corner with your own bloody little rain cloud, and mope about like somebody's pissed in your oatmeal? We've been racing around the world like chickens with our heads cut-off, chasing ghosts, and not once did I complain, but you— ”

Jack jerked his head with all the quickness of a predatory bird and looked at him with the filthiest expression Lyndon had ever seen on his face. If looks could kill, surely he would have been set alight then and there beneath the tree and burnt to a smoldering ruin. "You complained! You complained every single day and I got to listen to it! You've never _not_ complained. I believe I could sustain myself alone, on the fathomless font of your complaints! You don't care about anything, you don't care about the work, about finding Adria, or—

“Oh, here we fucking go. If I didn't care, I wouldn't have agreed to be here, I just know how to care _and_ live at the same bloody time! Something you've yet to grasp, since you're opting to sleep outside in the cold and damp when you don't even need to for some sort of ridiculous self-flagellation!” Lyndon snapped. “Now I know why you and Kormac always got on so well.”

It stung. Well, more than just a sting, it _hurt_ honestly. It hurt, that even after all this time, after everything Lyndon had done, Jack still thought that he didn't care.

“Remember that little talk we had about speaking commonly?” Lyndon asked, swallowing the hurt, letting it mold into anger instead, because it was so much easier to stomach. “You pretend that nobody cares but _you_ , but really, you're just so fucking vague that nobody knows what they're supposed to even care about.”

“I'm not _vague_ — ”

Yes you are! Yes you're fucking vague! Do you think you're the only one who's suffered? You think you're the only one who's had a 'bad time' of it? Well guess what, you're not fucking special, everybody's miserable.”

Jack stared at him, face screwed up into a furiously defiant expression. “I'm not going.”

_Well, isn't that just the way._

"Fine then, _fuck_ you.” Lyndon spat, “Stay here for all I care, which is of course not very much at all because _apparently_ 'I don't care about anything'.” He pushed past the Demon Hunter and paused at the crest of the hill.

“I'm going to go stay in whatever wretched structure they have that can be called an inn. See you later. Or never," Lyndon finished with a sarcastic two-fingered salute, then started walking towards those merry little lights. _Let him,_ he thought bitterly. _Just let him stay out here and drown in a bloody mud puddle._

It was then that the sky decided to shit on him just one more time, opening the clouds and letting the rain come down in buckets, because of _course_ it would. Of-fucking- _course._

“We should stay together,” Jack called after him, merely a distant bird call over the roar of raindrops, “It's not— ”

“Safe. Right. Whatever.” Lyndon kept walking. Why bother running? He was soaked through anyway.

The nerve. The gall. He could scarcely believe it. _What a fucking prick._

Jack lingered on the hill behind him for almost a full minute before Lyndon could hear familiar, long-strided footfalls coming up behind him. It was almost amusing how quickly he'd caved. Lyndon thought he could have easily rubbed that right in his stupid face, but found that, for once, he didn't have anything at all to say.

They marched down the hill, wet, furious, and exchanging filthy glances without speaking to each other. Black cloaks and coats wrapped tightly against the driving rain, that special brand of Khanduran darkness nipping at their heels.

 

 

 


	2. Holbrook

 

 

> “ _Adventures are all very well in their place, but there's a lot to be said for regular meals and freedom from pain.”_  
>  ― Neil Gaiman, _Stardust_

 

True to the Demon Hunter's prediction, they would not, in fact, receive a very warm welcome.

They approached the east-gate just as dark was settling, night making itself fully comfortable, while the rain did its level best to make the ground muddied and slick and terrible. The downpour had slowed to just a steady patter now, but the damage had already been done: Lyndon was certain he was completely sodden down to his skin and he was very cold, the tips of his ears and nose like ice. He sniffed, Gods, was that a tickle in his throat? He hadn’t been sick in years and had no plans to start now or he was going to spend every possible second sneezing into Jack's stupid face. And if he died from an inevitable lung fever, he’d haunt Jack mercilessly for the rest of his stupid grim life.

The warm, pretty lights that seemed so tauntingly close from the hilltop were no longer visible now because a large sturdy-looking wooden wall was blocking any view of the village inside. It was made from dark, rough-hewn logs at least twenty feet high, and they closed in the borders of the small town from all visible sides, leaving it about as fortress-like in appearance as New Tristram had been at the height of the ah, _disturbances_.

Lyndon then noticed a wooden section that jutted forward from the wall next to the closed gate. More like a little shed that had been slapped on as an afterthought than any sort of proper building addition. It held a narrow doorway with a window, a metal bell, and a lantern. Rain plinked loud and rhythmic off the metal slats of the small angled roof. It was a somewhat comforting sound that reminded Lyndon of being safe and warm indoors, but it was also distracting, making it difficult to notice the sound of anything else. Jack lingered just behind him, as dark and still as a cemetery statue, and as seemingly unbothered by the rain as a grazing farm animal. The shed was the post for the gatekeeper Lyndon assumed. He reached out and rang the heavy bell with a note of impatience. It clanged rather loudly, far too loudly for Lyndon who had spent the better part of a week creeping about in a silent forest. He winced, but at least it was probably loud enough to get someone's attention.

Jack was damned lucky that he and Lyndon had already established an amiable, mutually beneficial working relationship of sorts. Had it been anyone else, Lyndon would have been long gone without so much as a _'go fuck yourself'_ to leave behind. Having a bit of a history with someone was supposed to be a good thing, it was supposed to mean that you could trust them to a certain extent and that you could have some sort of friendly conversation with said person. Sure, Lyndon trusted that Jack wouldn't steal from him, let him die or kill him on purpose, _or_ dump him in prison despite his less than legal hobbies, but he wasn't so sure if he could trust that the Demon Hunter would react favorably to... _certain_ information. Best to keep most of his past nastiness in the dark where it belonged. He didn't do those things anymore anyway, so no sense ruining a good thing by dredging it all up.

The 'friendly conversation' bit could certainly use some work though. It was one thing to tolerate an ornery companion who wasn't big on talking, but to slog through the schoolboy version of the silent treatment in a miserable cold rain with an empty belly was entirely another.

 _I deserve an apology,_ Lyndon thought bitterly. _He is so bloody lucky, bordering on fucking blessed,_ _he ought to be thanking me on bended knee for staying._

Not that the decision to stick around had anything at all to do with the sheer volume of wealth he'd been able to acquire in the other's company.

 _A thousand gold richer and not one jot happier, as the saying goes_.

Sticking around also probably didn't have anything to do with Jack's promised gold and assistance in freeing Edlin from the Kingsport prison either. And it _certainly_ hadn't anything at all to do with the fact that Jack was probably the best friend Lyndon had managed to acquire in quite a long time. Maybe ever. _Whatever_. Lyndon was a bit angry at him still, but the pettiness of his thoughts gave him little pleasure.

Him and “friends” never really seemed to work out he found; something would always go wrong, either they tired of him, or he of them (one more often than the other), or they ended up trying to put a knife in his back (figuratively _and_ literally). Or they'd fuck, and Lyndon would ruin things all on his own without any extra help at all.

He'd have thought that all they'd been through together would surely mean _something_. Perhaps this friendship was on its way out, he couldn't quite say, but the very thought depressed him immensely when only a year or so ago it might not have.

Lyndon sighed, and tried to perk himself up with the thought of warmth and dinner. Now where in the Burning Hells was that _fucking_ gatekeeper? He was nearly ready to start climbing the wall.

Outside the wall and tucked away against the treeline, Lyndon's bored, wandering eye snagged upon the little village cemetery. Fog lay around it in a thick blanket about ankle deep, and the grave markers -a mix of wooden posts with thin metal stars attached, and roughly made slabs of slate- glinted wetly in the low light of small hanging lanterns.

Having had the distinct misfortune of touring just about every boneyard in the West, Lyndon felt the familiar flare up of instinct-deep wariness that made him grip the strap that held his crossbow just a little bit tighter. You never could tell when some ancient, bloody-wretched skeleton would flop out of a tomb and come after you, rasping grotesquely and clutching a sword so old and rusted that the blade would probably have to be re-christened _'Lockjaw.'_

There weren't any ornate tombs in this graveyard though, only a sad collection of dirt piles and meager monuments, but Lyndon had seen a coffin rise up out of the soil and burst open on its own before. It had been disgusting, and also the worst.

It was custom now, that most new graveyards in the North were always constructed outside village walls, and had been for some years. Carefully chosen plots of land were given the new honourable distinction of “consecrated ground” when it became unwise to bury the dead inside the villages, traditionally at the feet of the local chapel. Lyndon supposed this meant you could call whatever rubbish piece of land you wanted consecrated as long as you could find a priest who would agree with you. The public shithouse in the poor district? Consecrated. The alley behind the tavern where everyone went to be sick after a long night of drinking? Consecrated. He would have laughed had he not been concentrating so hard on keeping his teeth from clicking together.

Westmarchers were oddly particular about their dead and hadn't yet been able to absorb the concept that the dead coming back to life was an actual, legitimate modern day concern. And just because Lyndon hadn't yet noticed demons or walking corpses or the like shambling about Kingsport, didn't mean that it couldn't happen there. A gruesome thought to be sure.

When the wealthy elite of the country's great capitol didn't feel like piling their loved ones in the big cemetery on the heights, they kept them in family crypts beneath their very own houses in an attempt to deter grave robbers. Honestly, it wasn't terribly effective; Lyndon knew firsthand how easy it was to break into their homes and the dark crypts beneath them, pulling family rings right off of crumbling, bony fingers. Rather disgusting sure, but lucrative enough to be worthwhile.

But did all that effort mean that their fine mansions and town houses were considered consecrated ground too? The logistics and justifications of it all were absurd to Lyndon. Just because someone had money meant they were holier than thou and were guaranteed a spot in heaven over someone who was poor? _What a load of bollocks_. He'd met plenty of nobles he _personally_ guaranteed he'd be seeing in Hell. Or rather the "afterlife" or whatnot because Hell was certainly a place and he'd been there _personally,_ less than three months past, and it had been shit.

 _Time flies when you're having fun,_ Lyndon thought irritably, wiping his streaming nose on his dripping sleeve. Gods, he was _hungry_.

Heaven was a place too and he'd also been there, and really, it hadn't been all _that_ great. Better than Hell at least, but Lyndon probably wouldn't go back if invited. Even if Auriel, the Archangel of Hope herself were the one inviting him.

Well, _maybe_ then...

Kingsport's cemeteries by contrast were open and colourful, especially the largest one close to the ocean shoreline. Most of the gravestones were narrow and made from a bright white stone that was common to the area. There were above-ground tombs everywhere, because of proximity to the ocean and the swampland to the North. They would float out of the wet earth if they were buried. This made most of the graveyards resemble small white cities, sometimes referred to as “Bone Cities” by the locals. Lyndon remembered spending a lot of time in them when he was small, playing hide and seek and the like with other vagrant kids his age, or hiding from the city guards when he was hardly much older than that.

The many monuments and tombs were piled high with various trinkets and mementos made of colored glass, shells, or bouquets of flowers. Sometimes rows of red and gold flags, and metal chimes that would plink peacefully in the breeze. Items that even most thieves knew better than to steal. Beach roses grew with abandon on the edges, always trying to infiltrate the empty spaces. Often times people would write messages upon the tombs in charcoal in an attempt to communicate with the dead. He used to read them sometimes, but often found it too depressing.

Nowadays the Bone Cities were more popular with lethargic Opium users who would carry their ornate glass pipes and heating lamps into the cemeteries in the guise of a late night funeral procession, get royally fucked up, and then lie out on top of the flat tombs, gazing into the night sky for hours on end.

Lyndon had asked one once, a particularly gorgeous woman in her mid twenties, why the night sky was so interesting for hours and hours at a time, and she told him that she (and the rest of them) could see a great swirling dragon made of stars whose serpentine body filled the entire sky.

Absurd of course, and Lyndon had _of course_ pointed out that it was probably just that thicker bit of regular stars that clustered in the middle of the sky. The _Via Lattea_ , they called it, or _Milky Way_ if you weren't from Kingsport. She hadn't seemed able to understand or respond to him though, and the whole conversation had kind of frightened him away from trying the stuff ever since. He was afraid of how still it would make him, and how awful the very idea of that sounded. He needed to _move_. Better to stick with ale, whiskey, smoking pipe weed, or other more familiar things. _Better the devil you know than the one you don't and all that._

There was little luxury for cellars in Kingsport, a few here and there, but there were miles upon miles of well maintained, naturally and unnaturally made limestone tunnels that snaked beneath the city. Used almost exclusively by the Thieves Guild, and pirates of course, as a main highway for smuggling and a fast track to the open sea.

Lyndon blinked and eyed the village walls that towered over them warily. If whatever gatekeeping arsehole didn't show up soon they'd have to find another way inside somehow, which would probably be as simple as picking the lock on the keeper's door and inviting themselves into the village. Speaking of inviting, though overwhelmingly _un_ inviting from the outside, Holbrook at the very least _looked_ safe. Safer than lying about in a muddy hole in the woods all night anyway.

Honestly, instead of spending mountains of gold building elaborate mausoleums and bronze statues of angels dramatically draping themselves over tombs to bitterly weep for some rich noble shit (who no longer cared where he was going to be rotting for the rest of eternity because he was fucking _dead_ ) they could, ah, spend it on feeding the poor perhaps? Build a few more orphanages? But no, that'd be just _too_ much! It was the child's fault for not having money or parents of course!

The hypocritical, sanctimonious diatribe consistently spewed forth by the noble elite was enough to embitter him to his very core. Lyndon sniffed and gave the small cemetery a last parting glance before turning back to the large wall, trying to think of something a bit more pleasant before he put himself into a mood worse than the one he was already in.

He was swiftly yanked out of his thoughts by the sound of a door opening, then closing again, and a craggy old face suddenly appeared in the tiny window, startling him enough that he took a fearful step back. Lyndon plastered a quick smile on his face as easygoing as he could make it under the circumstances, ready to charm his way through the gates if it bloody well killed him.

The gatekeeper's face disappeared from the window and the narrow door opened, revealing a bent over man in a brown cloak who looked to be about a thousand years old. No wonder he took for-fucking- _ever_ to get back here. He wrapped his creepy, skeletal fingers stiffly around the swinging lantern and brought it up to eye-level. The old geezer fixed them with a suspicious, milky eyed gaze almost poisonous enough to shrivel a cropfield, and Lyndon felt his smile falter just a little.

 _Shit._ The only thing that could charm a face like that would be a great pair of tits, and while Lyndon considered himself impressively handsome, he and Jack were unfortunately lacking such aesthetic blessings. But hey! Couldn't afford to give up now when he was so close to what he'd been dreaming about for the better part of this fucking piss of a week.

“Two copper for entry after nightfall! What d'ya want and where d'ya come from?” The gatekeeper barked in a thick Khanduran accent, startling him again. Gods, he'd been jumpy lately.

Ahh, typical northern friendliness, he'd been missing this. _Not._

“Good evening!” Lyndon said, pleasant as you please, “We're travelers on our way West but can go no further tonight. We fancy a stay at the inn in your, uh, no doubt charming little village.”

“A Kingsport man.” The gatekeeper's sour, curdled face soured impossibly more.

_Fuckshit. Should have faked an accent._

“Indeed, I am from... Kingsport.” No stranger to making something up under pressure, Lyndon's thoughts spun, working to come up with something trustworthy and believable.

“Ah, I'm a tailor!” _Yeah, fucking nailed it._ “My companion and I are on our way to New Tristram to acquire some supplies. Surely that is enough? It's not the best weather for hanging about all night and hashing out the details of one's personal business after all.”

The gatekeeper seemed unimpressed. “Can't be too careful these days. Names?”

“My name is Jack, his is Lawrence.” Lyndon fibbed smoothly, avoiding Jack's gaze. He never used his real name out and about if he could help it, never quite sure how far news of his bounty had traveled, and it often felt safer to use false names in unknown places. Lyndon just wished he'd had a bit more time and bit more _help_ to plan something he and Jack could have mutually agreed upon ahead of time. He'd have probably advised Lyndon that it would be unwise to lie or some other noble drivel, but that was easy for him to say. _He_ wasn't wanted in three (maybe six, he'd lost count) countries!

“A tailor,” the gatekeeper acknowledged. “wha' about your friend Lawrence? Doesn't talk much does 'e? Wha's his business? Why's he dressed like tha'?” The man's tone dripping with that special Northern brand of suspicion. _Friendly lot, these northerners._ Apparently, Lyndon's hastily applied cheerful demeanor was not enough to convince the ancient geezer that they were merely harmless working-class travelers seeking a night out of the elements.

“Questions, questions, so many questions!” Lyndon said with what he thought might be a good-natured laugh, but came out sounding a bit more manic than he'd intended. “My dear _friend_ Lawrence is a trapper.” Lyndon indicated the deer pelt and skull Jack carried with his pack. “The best to be found in all of the Western Kingdoms! And black is much, much better at hiding stains and blending in.” Lyndon paused, then leaned in, making a show of reluctant secrecy, and whispered from behind a cupped hand. “We're business partners, leather clothes and the like are my specialty.” Lyndon said breezily, indicating his trusty leather duster, “but just between you and I, his wife's recently passed you see, the poor chap's wallowing in a bit of a sulk.”

Lyndon had come to terms with the fact that Jack was going to be a wretched, sulking fucking child about this whole thing instead of accepting the inevitable and helping get the both of them inside. _Whatever._ Lyndon would just make up a shit story to go along with his shit attitude. It was far from the best fib he'd spun but it would do. He'd acted his way out of far more life-threatening messes before, and he'd be thrice damned if he wasn't going to do it again, with or without Jack's assistance.

Though, Jack pulling his hood back and smiling or making even the slightest attempt to appear as _literally anything_ other than a heavily armed undertaker moving between charnel houses would have been tremendously helpful.

 _Bastard_.

The gatekeeper nodded in apparent, sober sympathy at this news. “Wha's with those weapons then? Fightin' an army are ye?”

Lyndon felt that the false, tight-lipped smile he had plastered on might just split his face in half. “The tools of his trade!” he proclaimed breezily, “needs all sorts of equipment to catch the nasty beasts wandering about the countryside, and I have a right to defend myself don't I? Can't be too careful nowadays, as you say.”

“Aye, it checks out I suppose.” The old man blew his nose rather messily into a stained, soggy looking handkerchief that gave Lyndon a serious case of the mouth-sweats just looking at it. “Give me a minute to think abou' it.”

“Think about it?!” Lyndon sputtered, incensed. “ _Burning Hells_ — has gold suddenly become worthless overnight and nobody thought to tell me?!” he snipped. “We're paying your gate toll, we told you our business, we just want to stay at the inn, what's the bloody problem?”

“Didn't yeh hear abou' that mess over in New Tristram? Corpses up and walkin' about, people dyin', _nasty_ business. Can't be too careful nowadays sirs, can't be too careful.”

_Keep it together Lyndon. Keep your fucking shit together or he'll never let you in, and it'll be a cold, wet night of darkness and mud and angry silence. Unless I break in, but that might be more trouble than it's worth, but maybe there was a back entrance on the other side, or I could wait until this old shit leaves again then- ah, focus!_

Lyndon grit his teeth and didn't answer right away, but it could have been more about preventing them from clicking together from the cold. He was shivering now, and very tired of this.

“Now, I haven't seen a mirror for quite some time, but I'm fairly certain I don't resemble a walking corpse just yet,” he quipped.“Listen friend, I'm very cold, very tired, and very hungry, I just want to come inside and spend money. Would a _sovereign_ be enough to convince you that we are men of business, and our business will take us elsewhere come morning?” Lyndon was not one to lose his temper or commit indiscriminate acts of murder, but after the frustrating argument with the Demon Hunter atop the hill, he was thinking that he was just about fucking there. At least when nothing else worked, bribery usually smoothed out the rougher edges.

“Alrigh', alrigh'! I meant no offense sirs, thank you sirs, it's my job to ask questions after nightfall, especially in these dark times.” The gatekeeper apologized a few more times, eager to please all of a sudden. It was incredible how the promise of money could make someone change their tune so quickly. It was almost amusing.

 _You don't even know what dark is, you ancient goat!_ Lyndon thought, but “indeed” was what he eventually said, then slapped the coins, sovereign included, into the man's hand and the heavy gates creaked and began to open with shifting weights and the turn of an ancient hand crank. _Praise Akarat._

“So sorry 'bout yer wife lad,” the gatekeeper called as Lyndon bade him good evening as they passed through the entrance.

Jack did not spare the old man even a passing glance.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=+=

 

The rain fell in cold gleaming curtains as they entered a wide, muddied street just inside the gate, the central marketplace, alive with shouts and conversation. Despite the nastiness of the weather, there were certainly people about doing last minute business and shutting up their shops to mark the day's close. Some were going quickly to avoid getting soaked, and others were resigned, as Lyndon was, to their wet fate and just plodded along at an unhurried pace.

The street lay flanked by foot-wide trenches running along either side, thick with filthy water and well, just filth in general. At least the rain dampened the smell. Small mercies. Usually towns reeked to him after being out in the wilderness for long periods of time. Lyndon found this odd, since he'd spent the majority of his life in one city or another, but lately had found the barrage of unpleasant odors utterly distracting until he was able to grow used to them again. He was surprised it didn't bother the Demon Hunter with that great nose of his. Perhaps it did and he just never mentioned it. Fitting, since he never mentioned anything at all.

But none of that rubbish mattered because people! Finally there were people!

The sudden presence of others, even strangers, struck Lyndon with a powerful sense of relief and a sudden, familiar itchiness in his hands immediately followed. A strong, fidgety urge that reminded him he hadn't exercised his favorite five-finger discount in quite some time, and now that there were people everywhere, he had the _perfect_ opportunity.

Or would have if he weren't being followed by his very own tall and heavily armed shadow.

Lyndon turned his head a bit, not quite looking back per say, but just enough to see out of the corner of his eye that Jack was still walking behind him. He didn't particularly care if the man kept up with him or not, he was merely... _curious_ as to his whereabouts. Eventually, Jack did come up to keep pace beside him.

Pick-pocketing would have to wait it seemed, besides, it wasn't good form to try to steal with stiff frigid fingers, made for an unacceptable loss of dexterity. More risk than he was willing to take at that moment.

Lyndon grinned at Jack when they caught each other's eye with a smug kind of satisfaction that he didn't get to fully enjoy because _really_ , he was already tired of fighting with the only friend he had for a hundred miles in any direction. He was just cold and hungry and tired of it. Everything felt like too much work already. They exchanged flat, petulant glances before Lyndon shifted his attention back to their surroundings.

A wagon, filled with large bundles of twigs (water reed probably) hauled by a slow-loping and rather tired looking packbeast rumbled by them, the wheels squeaking and leaving deep sticky tracks in the mud. Over the beast's eyes and great horns was draped a soggy rose-colored blanket, a sorry replacement for blinders. The beast's... _hands_ or whatever they were, certainly not hooves like those of pretty horses or ponies, sunk deeply into the wet soil and pulled free at each step with a loud disgusting squelch. It nosed its enormous head toward its owner, who tempted it along with half a carrot, murmuring “ _Come along now Thomas, we've almost come back to the barn._ ”

Filthy creatures.

In the distance, Lyndon could hear the familiar, rhythmic tinging of a blacksmith hammer striking metal and thought fondly of Haedrig. All the sights and sounds evoked a strong nostalgic sense of peace and comfort. He'd grown up in a large city after all, and never felt quite himself unless surrounded by others.

The market circle was closed in by rows of cramped little houses in varying degrees of sturdiness. Most of them were made of a mixture of wood and stone with slate or wood tiled roofs for the nicer homes, and whitewashed plasters thickened with animal hair and thatched roofs for the poorer ones. The typical architectural style of choice that all Khanduran and Westmarch houses sported. Their doors were heavy, dark and dreary, their lit windows small, sad and protected inside and out with metal bars. They would soon be shuttered tightly closed against the settling dark, and any opportunistic thieves. _Ha_.

The poorest homes were little more than depressing hovels of plaster, but they had good, load-bearing and box-framed construction, all held together with wattle and daub, the arranged wood decorating their surface. Their roofs were sparred together with bundled yelms of wheat or trusty water reed not unlike what lay in the packbeast's cart. Not that Lyndon cared much for such mundane details, but he had picked up such information over time. He sometimes found the different houses charming in their own way, wondering what the insides were like, and often delighted in noting the architectural differences between other places he visited.

There were no formal looking stone buildings or wealthy, pretty-looking townhouses to be found here, and even the best of the houses were no better looking than the lowest quality available in the larger cities like Westmarch or Kingsport.

Really, if you'd seen one wretched, muddy little hamlet, you'd seen them all.

"Quite the little tourist trap they have here," Lyndon muttered, unimpressed. Despite the lingering promise of shelter, Holbrook seemed particularly poor and depressing.

Perhaps it was just the rain. Perhaps it was just his mood. Perhaps it was just the too-tall, grim-looking arsehole walking next to him.

They passed a rather deep, dirty looking puddle filled with happily splashing white ducks while a dour-faced man struggled to herd them all away and down the road. Lyndon wove around several goats and sheep that were being followed by another wet and equally unhappy looking farmer.

Lyndon breathed another sigh of relief despite everything; he'd never before been so glad to reach civilization, even a small, dreary and somewhat unremarkable village such as Holbrook. He pulled his hood up over his head a bit more in an attempt to ward off a stuffy nose. Lyndon thought of little else but warmth and food and tried to focus himself toward achieving these goals.

A sudden loud clap of thunder startled him and a few others around, and he watched the sky carefully expecting to see an accompanying flash of lighting, but there was none. Nonetheless, it seemed to make the evening that much more ominous and Lyndon quickened his step. He couldn't recall a time in recent memory when a thunderstorm had occurred so late in the year, but Khanduras had horrible shit weather all the time anyway so he thought little of it.

He didn't bother asking directions to the inn, but instead kept his eyes peeled for large groups, guessing they would all be heading to the local inn for the ritual of evening pilgrimage the exact same the world over, and as old as time itself. The ever-present and much-respected tavern set on the inn’s ground floor the shining, holy destination. Lyndon hurried along, assuming Jack would follow alongside him (and if he didn't he could go fuck himself), eager to get out of the wet cold.

The residents they passed stared at them with obvious distrust. Nothing particularly worrisome; after all, people tended to be distrustful of travelers these days due to all the recent troubles. That, and peasants tended to be on the annoyingly superstitious side in general. Lyndon didn't much care, so long as they let them alone.

Lyndon quickly located a shambling procession of some weary looking working class, and he and Jack fell quietly in behind them.

But then things started to become much more strange: some of the people they passed recoiled from them as if Lyndon and Jack were hideously malformed (this being the exact opposite of what Lyndon looked like at least). One shouted something at them that was lost in rumble of another thunder-clap, and one simply backed away and changed direction upon sighting them.

 _Curious_.

Others drew a quick star over their chests, the sign of Akarat, blessing themselves as if they'd suddenly come into the presence of some great evil.

“What's all this then?” Lyndon whispered to the Demon Hunter, who merely stared at him with a flat, irritable expression. _Oh right, we're supposed to be fighting,_ he'd forgotten. Lyndon mirrored the expression, throwing it right back at him, and continued on, frustrated all over again.

_What exactly was going on here?_

The words "demon" and "Havenwood,” reached Lyndon's ear in a snatch of hushed conversation, and he was tempted to ask Jack if he knew anything about it. The hunter's cryptic 'we will not be well received' comment from earlier seemed to becoming more true by the minute.

Obviously he knew something Lyndon didn't, and was determined to keep his trap shut about it. Typical. _Arse._

Lyndon heard another whisper of 'Dreadlands' and came to a swift realization that all the fear and hatred was not directed at Lyndon at all, but rather quite specifically at the Demon Hunter, who had so far remained completely silent in the face of all this suspicion. In fact, Jack was currently doing his best to hide himself from view, he hunched deep into his cloak, hid most of his face in his hood and did his best to obscure all visible traces of his unique armor and crossbows.

He seemed more unhappy than ever, which was honestly quite an achievement.

Lyndon knew that it was a widely believed superstition by most common folk that Demon Hunters were often looked upon as omens of death, and indeed he himself used to feel the same, until Jack of course. Demon Hunters had only existed as known entities for about three decades, at least as far as Lyndon was aware, a rather short time to accrue such widespread mistrust and superstition. Shouldn't people view them as a _good_ thing?

Jack was always practical and kind enough, certainly well-mannered despite his frequent instances of bad temper. He'd done nothing but help in every place he'd ever visited, surely word had traveled far and wide, and his heroic deeds had gone a long way towards dispelling the long-standing rumors? Though apparently in isolated, dreary little villages like this one, superstition was alive and well.

Once you got past all the scowling, black clothing and dangerous looking weapons, Jack wasn't all that scary. He was a lamb! Well, he was a lamb when he wasn't being an enormous prick. Though, now that Lyndon thought about it, his eyes did sometimes glow rather strangely in low light or stressful situations. They often resembled small dancing flames. Lyndon had found it unnerving the first time he noticed, and it had been _hardly_ noticeable, well, as long as no one looked too closely. Lyndon had always figured that particular peculiarity had been because of Jack's Nephalem... _thing_...and tried not to worry too much about it.

Lyndon always anticipated a little nervousness from the residents in a new place with the Demon Hunter around, but this was a little more unusual than what he'd initially expected. Lyndon didn't think that he looked particularly scary (more like roguishly handsome) and while Jack often resembled a walking funeral, Lyndon had never found him to be particularly threatening. Needless to say, he was quite confused why everyone was suddenly so frightened and borderline hostile toward them.

As more and more people became aware of Lyndon and Jack's presence, they looked at the Demon Hunter as if he were plague ridden, something they could hardly stand to even look at. The townsfolk parted before them like water around a stone, unwilling to get close.

They were only two days caravan ride from New Tristram, surely the villagers would have heard of Jack and his insufferably noble endeavours? Bastion's Keep too? The great Demon Hunter who slew an army of demons and then several Lords of Hell? And practically all by himself at that (Lyndon had helped significantly though). Surely everyone had at least heard about the _battle_? Did people no longer seek out news from other lands?

Tried and true experience told Lyndon that the best way to deal with dodgy situations like these was to disappear. He pulled Jack by the crook of his elbow and they quickly ducked into a dark, cramped alley to emerge onto a much less crowded, parallel road that was blessedly free of scrutinizing peasant-folk. Jack wrenched his arm loose once they were free of the crowd with an exaggerated movement that clearly showed his displeasure with the entire business. Lyndon had forgotten, _again_ , all the times Jack had snipped a _'don't touch me'_ at him, more times than he could remember because he almost always forgot about it. But ahh, it was somewhat comforting that _Mr. High and Mighty Great Fucking Demon Hunter_ could be just as petty as the rest of them.

Whatever. As long as they kept a low profile and got rooms to stay in Lyndon didn't care. He was the kind of wet that penetrated through just about every layer of clothing he had on, leaving him cold, clammy, grimy and furious. He no longer cared what the townsfolk said, no longer cared to fight verbally with any of them. They were too scared to approach anyway and the vast majority simply ignored them, which he was more than fine with. He just wanted to get inside somewhere (and some _one_ if luck was in his favor). He was absurdly glad to see the warmly lit inn and tavern finally looming ahead of them.

Gods knew he could use a drink or five. Was Jack still behind him? _Aha, yes there he is. Prick._

A sign swung gently above the door announcing the building's moniker _'The Three Arrows Inn by Sheffield'_ and was decorated with three delicately painted bolts pointing at each other's ends to form a sort of triangle. The evening had grown quite cold, and icicles had just begun to form at the sign's base.

 _How fitting for a pair of arbalists._ Lyndon thought of the word with a sense of satisfaction, pleased to have recalled it. Below the painted sign the door had swung open wide to admit an entering stream of evening customers, inviting firelight spilling out between them. Lyndon waited for them to go on ahead before he trailed in behind them.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=

 

Inside they were met with a veritable horde of dour, dark-haired Khandurans and Westmarchers, faces carved out of wood beneath thick helmets of black hair, expressions set in permanent scowls. It was immediately warmer inside and Lyndon was grateful, but the rush of noise was almost an assault; the place was packed full to the brim with people, all talking and laughing and seemingly having a grand old time. The next boom of thunder vibrated the floor, rattling every piece of dishware from the sitting area to the kitchen. It was all at once so very loud and distracting that Lyndon was suddenly overwhelmed, frozen just inside the doorway and unsure of what to devote his attention to first.

A nudge at his back made him move forward, and though the touch had broken the spell, Lyndon couldn't help but be irritated with Jack when he glanced back at him, getting an eyeful of one of his trademark _looks._ But no matter, _room, warm, clean, dry, food, sleep,_ he quickly reminded himself, right away and preferably in that order. It helped sometimes to list things in his head to avoid getting distracted by some other such thing, but Lyndon was often quite single minded about acquiring comfort for himself.

Other important things to acquire like _evening_ _company_ , were of course negotiable, but heavily dependent upon meeting some of the other requirements first. That is, if he could find someone to sleep with that didn't have a face like a damp tombstone.

The more Lyndon saw of the Kingdom of Westmarch's natives, the more he was convinced that Jack was definitely from somewhere nearby. Well, at least originally. Nobody was ever _from_ the Dreadlands you see, one only ended up there by (likely) unfortunate circumstances.

Lyndon had never been there personally, and never known anyone who had and actually lived to talk about it, until Jack of course (not that he ever did much talking). It had always been a place that only existed in stories. The explosion at Mount Arreat, the cataclysmic event that had sundered the Northlands, all stories to entertain southerners like him, but no doubt quite real to the people who lived there and experienced it.

Lyndon had entered the crater after all, and the spiraling fleshy stairway that led down, down, and downwards into sweltering horror. He knew firsthand that it was more than mere tale.

He'd been about ten when the eruption had happened, and it had been real enough then. At the time, he'd been more concerned with avoiding starvation with his brother and perfecting his own special pick-pocketing and lock-picking techniques that would serve to later shape his future career, but even then he still remembered the cloud of ash that had ridden high on the South blowing winds late that fateful winter. It had blanketed Kingsport and indeed the majority of the Western Kingdoms in a fine layer of black. Almost as though there were something to be mourning and Sanctuary herself had provided the funerary veil.

But what was he doing? _Ah, yes._ _List!_ _Room first!_

His eye caught upon the enormous, inviting fireplace that was crowded in with many nighttime patrons, all drinking and laughing and having a far better time than he currently was. He watched them a moment with a strong sense of envious longing before squeezing his way through the crowd and up to the guestbook being manned by a sturdy-looking fellow that Lyndon guessed was the Inn's owner.

_Shefton or something. Sheffield? Sheffield!_

Sheffield, a broad-shouldered man with a head full of tightly curled brown hair, wore a faded white shirt that was stained sweat-yellow about the collar. He was currently dabbing at his perpetually perspiring forehead with a rather weary-looking expression planted on his weather-beaten face. The man seemed pleasant enough, as he laughed at something a serving girl said to him in passing, but Lyndon decided right then and there to get rid of his Kingsport tongue for the time being, in case the gatekeeper had already tattled on them. Gods knew northern folk ate suspicion for breakfast and washed it down with a steaming mug of superiority. He'd engaged in similar deceptions before quite successfully on a number of occasions, though hadn't felt the need in quite some time. They'd attracted enough attention already, and besides, Lyndon really wasn't interested in being attacked in the middle of the night.

“Good evening,” he said to the man in greeting and put on his most attractive smile. _Ah, yes._ He was definitely out of practice, but it sounded alright, at the very least he didn't sound like he was from Kingsport and that was what mattered most. Lyndon could feel Jack's gaze burning into the side of his head, but the Demon Hunter otherwise didn't comment.

Lyndon strategically placed his purse of money down upon the counter. He watched the innkeeper's eyes dart to the glittering coins, then back to him. Lyndon had learned fast and early that people would do just about anything if you paid them enough (himself included) but it was best to avoid those sorts of thoughts. He could certainly talk, but it was _gold_ that walked and would get him exactly what he desired.

After all, the pile of gold they'd amassed over the past year wasn't bloody-well going to spend itself.

“It's awfully warm in here isn't it?” Lyndon said, in an attempt to be friendly and conversational, though he himself was far from warm, fingers and toes only just beginning to thaw. Always made things easier to be pleasant to everyone Lyndon found, a valuable skill Jack _apparently_ had yet to acquire.

Sheffield wilted a little at that. “Akarat's bane, you can surely say that again! We've been stoking the fires since noon. I think I may just boil away!” He huffed a strong gust of breath and wiped the back of his neck, “Now, what can I do you gentlemen for?”

Lyndon might have suggested the man pop outside for a spell to avoid overheating had he not been so eager to get the whole business over and done with so that he could finally have a well-deserved wash and change into something dry.

“What is your _best_ room?” Lyndon asked, trying not to appear too eager.

The man practically fell over himself to list the amenities that their “best” room provided, but Lyndon was a bit distracted by the noise of the tavern and his own hunger, and missed most of the finer details. He managed to catch enough to interest him though without having to ask the man to repeat himself, _a_ _large bed, space to wash, and most importantly a fireplace!_ It was more than Lyndon expected for such a small shit town, but he was going to take it. He wasn't going to pay good money to cuddle in around the community hearth with the rest of the unwashed masses, he wanted his _own_ fireplace.

Maybe they saved such a room for visiting dignitaries or the odd traveling nobleman who had a flight of fancy for adventure without a lick of knowledge to back it up. Lyndon had acquired various objects of value from such foolish individuals before. Though why anyone in their right mind would wish to visit such a tiny little mud hole like Holbrook _on purpose_ was beyond him. At least New Tristram had the promise of riches beneath the cathedral, and uh, _history_ or whatever Kormac and old Cain had always droned on about.

“I'll take it!” Lyndon said cheerfully, and Jack could of course have whatever was left, be it another room, the stables outside, or better yet, he could turn right around and crawl back into the woods and sleep in a fucking hole in the ground, leaving Lyndon in peace. He didn't care which, was far too pleased with himself to care because-

“It's good you've asked for that room,” Shelton (or whatever) said, “she's the only one left!”

What.

Something must have shown on his face because Sheffield immediately tried to explain, “We've only the one left, we're full up on account of the storm. You're together aren't you? I hope you don't mind sharing.”

“It's fine. I'll sleep on the floor,” Jack cut in absently, the first thing he'd said since their little spat atop the hill. He wasn't looking at either of them, his unblinking gaze sweeping the room as if searching for some hidden threat.

Lyndon decided that one bed was at least better than no bed at all (really, he had no qualms about sharing so long as the other person didn't steal all the blankets or snore or act like an arsehole for a month) but was immensely irritated at the prospect of close quarters with the man he much preferred to get away from. Though Jack _did_ offer to take the floor, so Lyndon reasoned that lying in a cozy bed while Jack slept on the hearth like the mongrel he was might just make the whole thing bearable.

Throughout Lyndon's silver-tongued handling of the bartering process with their delightfully amiable host (they would be getting a discount for the inconvenience of course), Jack busied himself with making a futile yet humorous attempt to become invisible. Impossible, since he was so uncommonly tall and dressed in the one universally flattering color that only people at funerals and grim bastards bothered to wear. He'd have to actually hide _behind_ something to not stand out like a sore thumb.

It was odd, Lyndon noted, because Jack didn't often trust Lyndon to do these things for him, like acquiring lodgings or food or the like. He preferred to make any and all arrangements himself, inquiring after Lyndon's preferences from time to time, seemingly as an afterthought. The Demon Hunter was the boss of their little party and Lyndon had always been fine with that, made it so he didn't have to worry about any sort of fine details. Jack was never this passive. It was almost as if he were ashamed of something, or far more confusing, _afraid_.

Lyndon was still cross with him for being so unreasonably stubborn without giving any clear reason why, but couldn't help but start to worry somewhat. And now he was even beginning to feel a bit bad about the whole situation. _Fuck!_

“You can fight over it if you want,” Sheffield offered absently, doing up the cost calculations in his notebook with the aid of a small abacus, “though please note that per our rules, all fighting must be done outside of this establishment or you will be thrown out. I've just had the floors re-varnished.”

“Yeah, fine, sure, whatever, I _guess,_ ” Lyndon muttered irritably, agreeing to everything and anything that would get him upstairs faster, accent slipping and sliding in what he hoped was an unnoticeable fashion. He added a request for hot water to be brought up because he might as well get everything he wanted if he was going to be made to feel guilty about having it.

After the Innkeeper took his money Lyndon went to sign the book and, distracted, he'd nearly written in his own name, stopping at a loopy cursive 'L' just short of the 'y.'

Irritated with himself, he ended up salvaging it to read _Lawrence and Jack of Khanduras_ and left it at that.

Good enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wattle and daub is a composite building material used for making walls, in which a woven lattice of wooden strips called wattle is daubed with a sticky material usually made of some combination of wet soil, clay, sand, animal dung and straw.” -Wikipedia
> 
> A packbeast, for reference: http://diablo.wikia.com/wiki/Beast  
> #LetThomasRest2k17
> 
> If you're wondering why Lyndon makes such a big deal about beds and blankets, it's not just because he's a baby and wants to be comfortable (though this is a significant factor lol) I take cues from medieval England from the 12th through the 15th century as cultural influence for living in Sanctuary; comfortable beds that were not merely linen sacks stuffed with prickly straw or some other kind of plant were actually quite difficult to come by. An insect and vermin free bed with actual sheets, blankets and a mattress stuffed with soft cotton or goose feathers was a luxury. It is also worth noting that the sharing of beds by all genders was extremely common and often considered a sign of friendship.


	3. Blood on the Valley Floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of the plot of the tale Jack tells is directly derived from the canon Demon Hunter back story. One line is lifted directly from this story and slightly altered.
> 
> This chapter has been altered to stay in line with the edited chapters before this, when I finish updating this chapter, the next will be updated accordingly and so on.

_And the smoke lies on the valley floor,_  
_And the blood dries while we spill some more._  
― _Blood on the Valley Floor_ , Soundgarden

  
 

Lyndon paid the man and cheerfully hopped up the stairs, eager to inspect their sleeping quarters and finally change into something dry.</p>

Jack shadowed him silently. Lyndon was fine with that.

He threw open the door and was immediately crestfallen. There was only one bed. He did not want to sleep next to that tall, lanky, grumbling killjoy. He looked sidelong at Jack, disappointed, and still Jack said nothing! Lyndon expected at least a scowl. The man only had three facial expressions after all: irritated, bland, and murderous rage. Didn't he care about this at all? Jack could barely sleep near him in their bedrolls, preferring to stay as far away as he could politely manage, surely this would be far too close for comfort.</p>

What in the bleeding Hells was wrong with him?

Lyndon decided that one bed was at least better than no bed at all (really, he had no qualms about sharing so long as the other person didn't steal the blankets) and gratefully dropped his bags on the floor. The bed was very large and covered with blankets and furs, as he had asked. Well, that was good too. He cast another glance at the hunter, his long crane-like legs would probably take up most of the space. Perhaps Jack would be prudish enough to want to sleep on the floor? One could dream. The bed looked very comfortable, and Lyndon was very tired and almost wanted to go to sleep right then and there, but he was also very hungry. He leaned up his crossbow and closed the door, locking it securely. Jack moved to the other side of the room and started to remove his wet clothes, Lyndon quickly followed suit.

They were both soaked to the bone. His leather boots were going to take forever to dry, same with his coat. Lyndon hung everything he removed near the fire on any hook or chair edge he could find, hoping it would be dry enough to wear by tomorrow. When he tipped his boots upside down, a bit of water poured out onto the floor, causing the scoundrel to make a face. Lyndon glanced at Jack then to see if he was having a similar experience. He had his back to him, and was removing armor pieces one at a time, setting them aside with great care. Lyndon felt a small amount of satisfaction seeing that the untouchable hunter was shivering as well. That proved the man could at least feel something. He wasn't infallible, Nephalem or not. Just like the rest of them.

Lyndon smiled to himself, pleased that all of his extra clothes had remained perfectly dry in his bag.

Jack removed his shirt with stiff movements, hands trembling, unaware of (or deliberately ignoring) Lyndon's curious gaze. The scoundrel was surprised to see a large, ornate tattoo on the man's back between his shoulder blades. It was a very detailed work of art that was applied with great skill, Lyndon had seen many tattoos adorning thieves in the guild, but rarely saw ones so intricate. The image was of a creepy, hooded, demon skull with large, angular horns. The creature's hood bore a familiar iron cross design that Lyndon had seen adorning Jack's armor numerous times. Above the skull was the top half of a singular, ornate crossbow and below were decorative, overlapping plates of armor, also bearing the iron cross. The entire piece was richly colored. Lyndon was immediately very curious as to why Jack had it, what it meant and how it was done so skillfully. He thought it looked like a crest of some kind, but he had never seen anything like it before. He very much wanted to ask about it, but at that moment, Jack glanced back and caught him staring.

"What?!" The man barked, the first thing he'd said since they arrived. He realized Jack was naked except for his cloak that he carefully held over his body to cover himself. He was looking a bit embarrassed at being scrutinized, and did Lyndon detect the hint of a blush on his cheeks, how amusing, who would have thought the big bad hunter could be so bashful. HA! Lyndon had no such physical reservations. He carefully filed this knowledge away for later teasing.

"Nothing, Sir Sourpuss." Lyndon tossed back airily, irritated by the hunter's abysmal attitude. “Better hold that cloak securely, someone might see you!” He teased.

Jack scowled and said nothing, but turned away from him, cloak clutched tightly against himself, and put more distance between them to continue changing. Bloody child. Lyndon noticed a large, dark bruise on the hunter's hip, he didn't see it before because he had been so interested in the tattoo. The bruise must have hurt, and didn't appear to be very old he probably got it a few days ago when they had come across that farm that had a demon infestation. The farmer was grateful for their assistance and had rewarded them with food. Lyndon didn't realize that Jack had been injured then, he hadn't said anything.

That was always the damned problem wasn't it? He never bloody said anything!

Lyndon finished changing into his dry clothes and smoothed his wet hair back into place, primping his appearance a bit in preparation for the hunt of females. He turned to Jack, who was now dressed in a simple black, sleeveless tunic and dark, form-fitting leather pants, and was attempting to towel dry his raven black hair with a spare shirt.

He supposed he might as well give communication one last try. "Shall I get us some food or is that too much of a luxury for you?" Lyndon asked dryly.

Jack glared at him, as he'd expected.

“Do whatever you like.” The hunter finished hanging his clothes by the fire to dry and sat down on the bed to tinker with his crossbows, pointedly avoiding Lyndon's gaze.

Fine then, you miserable twat.

Lyndon sighed theatrically and left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=+=

 

 

> _“The thief, as will become apparent, was a special type of thief._
> 
> _This thief was an artist of theft._
> 
> _Other thieves merely stole everything that was not nailed down,_
> 
> _but this thief stole the nails as well."_
> 
> ―Terry Pratchett, _Sourcery_

 

Lyndon went downstairs to the bustling inn, the patrons still cast him many a suspicious glance, but because he was alone, without his crossbow, and dressed more casually, they were considerably more welcoming. Well, as welcoming as local drunks and poor, superstitious farmers could be to a complete stranger traveling with a decidedly dangerous looking, and grim individual at any rate. Which meant that they were ignoring him. That suited Lyndon just fine, he was used to being a new face in a town he'd never been to before. It was easy to fall back into the old rhythms of blending in when he didn't want to be seen and making a show of himself when he desired to be noticed. He'd been doing it successfully for years and certainly didn't need Jack to hold his hand.

Ignorance was a cutpurse's very best friend after all.

At least no one was shouting things at him anymore. He could understand why Jack had made them nervous, the miserable sod practically had a storm cloud over his head at all times. He just didn't know how to smile to put people at ease. That and his penchant for dressing in all black like some godsdamned bloody grim reaper probably didn't help his case much either. Lyndon always knew that he was the more charming one in their little duo.

He leisurely strolled up to the bar to read the posted menu for that evening and elbowed his way in between the locals to see what was behind the counter to eat. Pack beast stew, very promising, a Khanduras favorite. Much better than eating dried venison for days on end. The stew was simmering in a large pot in the tavern's backroom and as soon as he smelled it he felt his mouth begin to water. He eyed the drink list now, mostly local brews, some promising sounding harvest ales -and huh, that meant they had missed the harvest festival in Westmarch, how disappointing- and wines imported from Westmarch. Unusual, he didn't think anyone in this little village could even afford such pricy drinks. More for him then! As Lyndon glanced around at the patrons, he quickly spied a pretty young thing with a gorgeous figure and flowing brown hair, sitting at a nearby table, tittering with her friends.

What a nice surprise! He decided that he'd earned a little alone time from the boss upstairs. He stared at the girl openly, leaning against the bar and smirking, waiting for her to notice him. He winked at her when she caught his eye. She giggled, blushed and turned to whisper excitedly to her friends while glancing back at him every so often.

Ahhh, at least some things were still normal around here. He might even get lucky tonight if he played his cards right. Ha, who was he kidding? He was always lucky with girls! Though they would have to have their romp at her place as he was in no position to entertain guests. He could barely entertain the wretched bastard upstairs as it was.

Preferring to allow his chosen conquest to become adequately curious about him before he made his move, Lyndon decided to make the rounds of the spacious tavern before he introduced himself. He ordered a pint of the local ale and casually sauntered through the bar, weaving around barmaids and patrons. A sip of the ale revealed that, though it was not the best he had ever had, it certainly wasn't the horse piss he feared it would be. Nice. He began to observe, sizing up the room and cataloging who was here, and who was easy, as was his usual habit. There were people gathered around a large fireplace at the far wall opposite the bar. A large pack beast head was displayed proudly above the stone and wood mantle. On the mantle itself was scattered some pottery of various sizes, probably locally made. Nothing too valuable was ever out on display in such a public place. Probably because of thieves like himself.

Lyndon joined the huddled group, found a seat near the fire and warmed himself gratefully for a few minutes. He still felt quite a chill from being out in the rain and wished for the hundredth time that he had a spare cloak or a warmer shirt, his simple tunic wasn't doing much for him at the moment. He should have just worn a blanket down, and to Hell with what anyone else thought. The rain was still coming down heavily outside, he could see it pouring off the edge of the roof through the curtains on the glass window. With his luck it would probably freeze overnight. He wasn't looking forward to trudging through cold mud tomorrow. Especially if his boots didn't dry properly.

He sighed, taking a long pull from his mug.

This Inn seemed to be unusually crowded for such a small town, but Lyndon supposed it was likely due to the poor weather. It was probably warmer in here than many of the farmer's own houses, depending on how poor they were. He was unfortunately familiar with those kinds of circumstances, having spent much of his life in the Kingsport slums. Lyndon's eyes moved deftly from person to person. He saw some easy pickings among the more upper class individuals and decided to take the opportunity (without Jack nannying him) to engage in some profitable stress relief. Good old fashioned pilfering. He walked through the crowd, nursing his drink, quicksilver fingers lifting jewelry, rings, purses of money and even a pair of earrings, all without a single person even looking up. If stealing could be considered a craft, he would say he had mastered it. And if he wasn't going to give up stealing right away, despite promises he had made, he at least wasn't going to take anything from people who couldn't afford to lose a few coins here or a shiny bauble there.

Mm, baby steps.

Lyndon felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation spread over the back of his neck and realized that he was being watched. Some men, four to a corner table, were attempting to be subtle about staring at him. He cast them a sweeping glance, making it appear to be an accident, and took careful note when they looked away quickly. Lyndon knew that no one could have seen him pickpocketing. Other than when he had been much younger, the only person to have ever caught him in the act was the Demon Hunter upstairs. These men must have been watching him for some other reason. Perhaps they saw him and Jack arrive in town and wanted to harm them?</p>

It was very possible. Lots of things wanted to kill them, and for some unfathomable reason, not many people liked Demon Hunters all that much. In a small town like Holbrook, word of strangers traveled fast.

Or perhaps they had have seen him throwing his gold around earlier and were looking to rob him? Ha! He wished them the best of luck. Even without the Demon Hunter around, no one stole from him. Ever. He supposed either scenario was a possibility but neither was particularly worrisome. There was little that truly worried him anymore after visiting Hell, least of all petty thieves. He tried not to think of what awaited him in Kingsport, shrugging off the bad thought with practiced ease.</p>

Lyndon pointedly did not look back at the men as he strolled his merry way back to the bar. He instead glanced at them through his peripherals as he ordered two large helpings of the stew, a loaf of fresh bread and a bottle of the best wine they had in the back. One man was speaking urgently to a much put upon barmaid while the others continued to stare at him. He heaved a sigh.

How tiresome.

Still, he'd have to make sure their door was locked tightly. Lyndon wanted to enjoy sleeping in an actual bed for long as possible, and being disturbed in the middle of the night didn't quite agree with this desire.

The thief promptly assumed the men were a minimal threat and forgot all about them as soon as there was food set in front of him.

Though Jack was being as stubborn as an ass, Lyndon did not want him to go hungry. He much preferred him alive and able to protect them from demonic hordes, babbling cultists, demon lords, or even ornery, wandering foliage. He couldn't very well do that on an empty stomach now, could he?

Well, previous experience said that he could, but Lyndon supposed he should bring him something to eat all the same.

Feeling rather good, Lyndon tipped the bartender generously with some of the gold he'd lifted. He loved a five finger discount! He snagged an empty tray from behind the bar, drifted over to the table of women, food in hand, and proceeded to look them over. Well, well, a redhead a blonde and a brunette. All his favorites in one convenient place!

"Good evening ladies." He said, smiling widely.

"Good evening!" They parroted, then laughed, obviously all quite drunk. This made it all the easier for Lyndon to seduce them. Not that he ever needed help, mind you.

"I was just on my way to visit my friend in his room, but I thought I'd come over and say hullo." Lyndon addressed them amiably.

“Your friend you say? Is he as handsome as you?” The blonde girl cackled like a chicken ready to lay an egg.

“Nooo, nonono, not quite.” Lyndon said, grinning. He immediately thought of the dashing war hero image the hunter seemed to fit so easily, even though he didn't even try. Bastard.

"I saw him come in with you, but his face was hidden by his cloak. He looked strong! You two aren't from 'round here are you?" The brunette he had initially noticed said to him, nearly spilling her drink all over the table. He smiled. What a charming bunch of ladies!

"I am from Kingsport, but I have been... traveling around recently to far off places. I'm just passing through your fair village." He continued, using his most irresistible voice. It was always a tossup whether he would say he was from Kingsport or Westmarch, depending on what his evening's quarry seemed to find most interesting. People from Westmarch tended to look down their noses at Kingsport residents, but people from smaller towns in Khanduras usually didn't know any better. All the better for him, and he'd disguised his native accent well enough into something a bit more cultured so no one would ever mistake him for lower class.

"Oooh, did you hear that girls? He's an adventurer!" The red haired girl exclaimed. They all laughed again and he joined in. It was almost too easy for Lyndon to make them like him, he hardly had to do anything at all. It was a simple thing to rely on the good looks he was blessed with, and the charm he had honed with practice. It did the work for him really.

"Why yes darling, an adventurer indeed! I've been to all sorts of wild places. My name is Lyndon.” He said seductively. “Ah! No need to introduce yourselves!" He interrupted them quickly (he didn't care what their names were anyway). “I was going to turn in for the evening, but I think that after seeing such lovely, young ladies I'll be coming back downstairs very soon, then we can all get better acquainted.”

"Take your time Lyndon, we'll be here all night!" The blonde said, laughing.

"I look forward to sharing your... company." Lyndon said then nodded goodbye.

Hmm, he thought that went very well, he definitely had a chance or three. Now to go eat before his dinner got cold.

Lyndon ventured back up the creaking, wooden staircase, stomach growling, positively starving now. Once he got to the closed door he remembered the sulky Demon Hunter and his good mood was slightly dampened. Sometimes he wondered why the Demon Hunter even bothered to bring him along if he apparently hated conversing with him so much. It didn't make a whole lot of sense to Lyndon. He thought he'd be used to Jack's sour moods by now, but they still irked him every single bloody time.

Resigning himself to another round of the game "mutters and glares," he sighed heavily, and opened the door, carefully balancing their food on the tray he'd borrowed.

He was surprised to see all their clothes strung up on several ropes, held firmly to the wall by arrows. Apparently, Jack had thought their casual draping of clothing on chairs and wall hooks wasn't good enough. There was so much hanging fabric that Lyndon was momentarily reminded of the makeshift hovels in the Caldeum sewers. Jack was sitting in the room's only armchair, pulled right up to the fireplace, surrounded by a curtain of cloaks and garments. His eyes were half lidded, the glint of their burning gaze clearly visible from the doorway, matching the fire they stared into. Lyndon noted the hunter's posture: tense but tired. Years as a thief had taught him how to read people very well, he could tell that something was gnawing away at the man but he wasn't sure how to approach him to dispel it.

Arm beginning to ache, Lyndon closed the door and walked to the table to set the food tray down. It was strange to see Jack so under-dressed. Lyndon was very used to the imposing figure he cut in full Demon Hunter armor. Without it, he looked much smaller, still lean and muscular, and taller than anyone he had ever met save perhaps, a barbarian, but a little thin from too many missed meals. In his black, sleeveless tunic, Lyndon could see the bare skin of his arms for the first time in months. His bare feet propped up to be warmed upon the hearth were perhaps the strangest of all.

"Hey, I brought some dinner, are you hungry?" Lyndon called to him. Nothing, not even a head turn. Lyndon sighed softly and set the tray down on the small table. How frustrating. He really wasn't in the mood to put up with this anymore. They'd had their little fights before, sure, but most of them were forgotten about or resolved quickly. Jack had a quick temper, but did not usually stay angry at the rogue for long. Lyndon rarely got mad at all. It was pointless to stay mad about small things. He simply didn't care.

"...Are you alright?" Was he still just ignoring him? Or was something truly wrong? Concern was winning out over any lingering irritation he had and Lyndon wondered when he had slipped into this new role of actually giving a damn, rather than doing his best to simply ignore the other man and get away with as much gold as he could carry.

"Jack?" Lyndon said approaching the armchair cautiously.

He leaned in closely by Jack's ear, not quite touching him and whispered, "Jacky?" The hunter jumped, sitting bolt upright, scaring them both. "Lyndon?! Don't sneak up on me! And I told you not to call me that!” He barked.

"Yes, I know." Lyndon replied grinning. "And I wasn't sneaking!" He sneered. "I said your name more than once, you must have been day dreaming, or thinking too deeply. Were you trying to sleep or something?" He asked all at once.

The hunter rolled his shoulders a bit to loosen them. "No, I was... medi- thinking... I'm f-"

"Fine. Yes, you've mentioned that before. I brought dinner, you really should eat some, you look a little... odd." Lyndon said. He grabbed a blanket off of the bed and wrapped himself up in it -it's not like there was anyone here to get prissy about his table manners- feeling much more comfortable right away. He sat himself down at the small dining table staring at the food in front of him with interest.

"Odd?" Jack repeated a little sharply, likely anticipating some sort of teasing remark.

"Well, tired." Deeply troubled, Lyndon wanted to say.

"...Oh." Jack appeared a little disappointed with himself, as if he were upset that Lyndon were able to tell. If Jack wasn't such utter shit at keeping his moods under control, then perhaps Lyndon would have left him alone like he seemed to want so bloody much. It was his own damn fault!

“It's stew from downstairs, pack beast and such.” Lyndon said, indicating the food and taking a bite. “It's good!” He exclaimed, pleasantly surprised, looking back at Jack. "I have bread too. It's fresh, just baked! Come over here and eat!"

Jack said nothing and didn't move from the chair.

“You're sure you're alright now?” Lyndon wheedled, feeling much was still left unsaid.

"Must you ask so much?" Jack complained. "I said I was f-"

“Fine!” Lyndon mocked simultaneously, predicting Jack's answer with a roll of his eyes and a sarcastic wave of his hand.

The Demon Hunter fixed him with a withering glare.

“You worry me sometimes." He sighed. "Look," Lyndon began evenly, "I'm getting a little tired of being cross with you, it's starting to require far too much effort, and for someone with an occupation as unique as yours, it's rather spectacularly boring. You made such an argument against us coming here but you haven't even said why. Now since you're so painfully, obviously not "fine," will you please tell me what's got you so down at the mouth so we can go back to doing... whatever?” He asked earnestly. He really did want know why the Demon Hunter was upset, Lyndon wasn't used to this behavior from the man and it was throwing him for a loop.

Jack merely stared at him a moment, then spoke: “Its nothing. Really. Just drop it.” He muttered irritably, looking away.

Lyndon sighed exaggeratedly. “Fine then.”

Lyndon stuffed a few more mouthfuls in, feeling better now that he wasn't so cold and hungry. “You should go to bed, you really do look tired.” He said to Jack seriously after a few minutes.

“I thought you said I should eat first?” Jack responded sourly. The thief shrugged at him, annoyed. Barmy git! If he was going to throw his concern to the dogs, then Lyndon wasn't going to keep trying to be nice to him!

Lyndon ignored him and Jack finally got up from the armchair, visibly shivering when he left the warmth of the fire. All their clothes were still wet, but if he was cold, he should put a bloody blanket on like Lyndon had. But he wasn't going to suggest this to him however, because he was a bloody adult and could very well take care of himself.

Lyndon took another bite of stew and sighed in contentment as the food warmed his core. He was glad it was just as delicious as he'd hoped it would be. Jack sat at the table across from him and looked at their food. "Thank you Lyndon." he said softly, before beginning to eat slowly, then a little faster as he seemed to realize his hunger.

Finally some appreciation! "You're very welcome. " Lyndon replied cheerfully, smiling at him, anger forgotten.

They both ate ravenously for several long minutes, neither of them speaking. It had been too long since they last ate something so good and filling. "Ah, wasn't this a good idea?" Lyndon said, breaking off a hunk of bread, using it to clean the leftover broth from his bowl. Jack said nothing, continuing to eat.

"I guess I'm not cross with you anymore." Lyndon reassured the Demon Hunter. It was difficult for him to stay in a bad mood or not think optimistically, despite the rotten things he had seen and experienced.

"Is that so?" Jack murmured absently, humoring him.

“Yes, it was very boring talking to myself.” Lyndon continued. "Though I will tell you I am quite the conversationalist."

“Bored hm? Is that why you amused yourself downstairs by pickpocketing those poor villagers?” Jack accused harshly.

“Ahha... Well, I may have done a bit of browsing.” Lyndon admitted sheepishly. Sometimes he forgot how sharp the other man could be. “And Poor villagers? Hardly! I prefer to rob the rich. Weren't these “poor villagers” as you call them vehemently cursing your presence in the street not a handful of hours ago?” Lyndon added with a little laugh.

Jack seemed to be a bit amused by this, but the smirk faded quickly. “I can't leave you alone for a moment.” He lectured.

Lyndon laughed, “Old habits, you know how it is.”

“No, I really don't.” Jack answered quickly with a distasteful expression on his face.

Lyndon pulled out the wine bottle and cracked it open, "Would you like a bit of wine?" He offered gently.

Jack gave him a look.

"What's that face for? I bought it this time!" The scoundrel exclaimed, offended.

The Demon Hunter eyed the bottle suspiciously as if it were a frothing rabid dog, eyes flicking from it to Lyndon's face and back.

“It's wine, not poison you paranoid maniac. A little won't kill you.” The scoundrel drawled, mildly exasperated with him.

"...Just a little then." Jack conceded rather shyly, reaching for it, "Cheers." Lyndon said, "To better days." Jack nodded and took a swig out of the bottle, making a slight face at the taste before swallowing thickly.

Their disagreements finally out of the way, it was easy for them to slip back into the familiar back and forth they'd developed over the past months.

Lyndon struck up a conversation about the elemental arrows again and Jack patiently answered his questions. He thought he might have been doing alright with the cold ones, poison he was already good at, and fire didn't seem to be working quite as well as he'd hoped. They hadn't much discussed lightning, Jack seemed to think Lyndon might accidentally hurt himself, though he'd never said so explicitly. The talk started out warm enough in their usual topics but it quickly drifted cold again. Jack couldn't seem to shake himself from the black mood that was eating him. He spoke about Kormac's men's club in Westmarch and the evil he feared they might find there (bored, women starved Templars more like), the hunt for that miserable slag Adria, where Tyrael had gotten off to, and the fate of that dumb black rock. His thoughts were utterly dark and Lyndon wasn't sure how to help him beyond offering him wine over and over again, making sure he got the lion's share. It might help him sleep a little better at the very least. Maybe he wouldn't have any bad dreams. Jack didn't seem to be paying attention to how much he drank anyway, accepting the offer each time with the same shy hesitancy as the first.

It wasn't that Lyndon didn't care about these things the hunter spoke of. Quite the opposite actually, though no one would likely ever believe him. He just knew that it was unhealthy for one to dwell upon such unpleasant subjects for long periods of time without allowing oneself a break. It could really make a person depressed.

Obviously, as he could see by Jack's negative-Nancy attitude. Lyndon frowned and hunched deeper into the warmth of his blanket.

The Demon Hunter put away three fourths of the bottle seemingly without realizing it, while Lyndon worked to restrain himself, if only for the interesting experience of seeing the other man a little tipsy for once. Jack looked relaxed for the first time since they arrived, tense muscles loosening with the flow of alcohol. He looked even more tired than he did before however, the drink lifting his veil of "fineness" away and exposing his sorry condition for scrutiny.

Got you now you liar, you're exhausted, and you've never had a single drop of wine in your entire bloody life. Lyndon thought triumphantly.

"Anyway, to answer your earlier question." Jack said rubbing his eyes and blinking rapidly. "You can enchant the bola shots with lightning magic, making them explode on their targets, I'll... I'll teach you soon. Once you master enchanting the arrows. Its important to learn that first, lightning is... unwieldy."

"Ah, good." Lyndon replied, pleased, and greatly looking forward to adding more tricks to his arsenal. One could never be too prepared, and he liked being good at things. He liked being able to cover his own arse without someone hauling him out of danger by the collar every other minute. Perhaps this was why Jack offered to teach him in the first place, he was getting tired of running around after him.

"Your enchanting is going well, I should teach you how to use a knife or chakram as well. If you drop your crossbow or run out of arrows-" Jack began thoughtfully.

"I have lots of daggers for a reason you know, more than enough people know better than to pick a fight with me, and I've never dropped my crossbow!" Lyndon interjected, offended.

"No, but it was taken from you that one time, by the soul ripper's tongue, it almost punched a hole through your chest." Jack lectured blandly.

"Yes well..." Lyndon muttered, embarrassed, and picking at the edges of his blanket distractedly. "I still didn't drop it, it stole it from me!"

Jack very nearly smiled at that, "I think I've drunk too much, I almost laughed. You have daggers yes, and you use them well enough for humans, your aim is quite good with throwing them I've noticed, but, as you know, demons are a different breed.”

"Hmm." Lyndon replied, grinning. He felt pleased that he was able to make Jack forget himself and laugh. Well, almost laugh, if only for the moment. And the compliments were nice, coming from someone as skilled as the Demon Hunter. Not that Lyndon would ever say so out loud.

They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes.

“Lyndon?” Jack said suddenly, body tense again, and with a hint of what Lyndon swore was desperation coloring his voice.

“What's the matter?” Lyndon asked, a little concerned by how he had said his name.

The hunter looked tired, his eyes were heavy and he was a little clumsy from the wine, but his body was wound tight as a bowstring. It seemed like he desperately wanted to say something, but then thought better of it, staring intently out the dark, rain splattered window. Stubborn bastard.

“I'm... I'm going to turn in.” Jack announced finally, eyes down on the table.

“I will too, in a moment.” Lyndon responded, a little disappointed. Talking with the Demon Hunter was like walking on eggshells sometimes. He remembered with a little bit of apprehension that they had to share the bed. Jack still hadn't mentioned their sleeping situation, he didn't seem to care at all, and if he didn't, then Lyndon wouldn't let himself worry about it.

Jack stumbled to the bed, hand coming up to grasp the bedpost quickly to save his balance, he obviously was not used to drinking, even though it really hadn't been all that much, his tolerance must have been abysmal.

"Careful there." Lyndon teased, greatly amused. He wondered what it would be like to get him really smashed. Likely a laugh and a half!

The hunter shot him a curdling glare, then peeled the blankets back and curled up ungracefully into a tight ball in the bed, burrowing into the blankets with a soft sound. Jack watched Lyndon for a few minutes, eyes half closed and unfocused while the rogue played out a game of solitaire on the table, pretending not to notice. Eventually his eyes fell closed and he relaxed.

Lyndon glanced at him. Hm. Tired indeed. There had been less instances of nightmares in the dead of night, and Lyndon had thought that he had just been sleeping through them, or that Jack was suffering less of them. But now he was beginning to worry that the silly idiot hadn't even been sleeping at all. Pffha, it wasn't like Lyndon to worry so much about him, but he supposed he had grown a bit fond of him over the past few months, berk though he was. Though he also supposed that he would grow fond of anyone who had saved the world and then gifted him a bloody fortune on top of it. Lyndon was actually a little surprised by the degree of trust the man had for him now. In the past he had guarded himself and his possessions from the thief fiercely, never sleeping in his presence or leaving his things unattended. He assumed Lyndon would try steal from him. Maybe back then he would have tried to, had tried to in fact (with varying degrees of success) but now... not so much.

Lyndon waited a few minutes more, then put his cards back in their box, got up, and went to the door. He opened it soundlessly (hey, he could be quiet when he wanted to), grateful for well-oiled hinges, and looked out into the dark hallway for a few moments. There was no one there, as he expected but... still he waited. He could hear muffled noises from downstairs, clinking of glassware and the shuffling of chairs, the bell on the door jingling distantly as people exited. Things were starting to quiet down as patrons went home and travelers went to sleep. The hour was growing late, and while it was still early by Lyndon and Jack's definitions, most normal people were in bed by now. The hall upstairs was dead silent. He thought that perhaps he should have told Jack about the men he saw, but he didn't think of it at the time, and he certainly wasn't going to wake the hunter now to tell him.

The stubborn bastard would probably wait up all night for them “just in case” and be even more wretchedly tired and short tempered all day tomorrow. No thank you.

The scoundrel suddenly realized with some small alarm, that he had forgotten all about the girls he said he'd meet downstairs. He carefully thought over his options. He came to the startling conclusion that he would much rather go to bed than go back downstairs. Tempting as it was to have a little roll in the hay, (it had been too long) he decided that all he really wanted was to just roll into bed. He was cold and tired and really, if he thought about it, it was harder now than it was before to just have a tumble with any woman (or otherwise) who said yes to him. He had seen too much and the doe eyed ignorance of his bed partners ate at him.

Lyndon needed to look for something better than three poor drunk girls. Someone better, someone who understood him, someone he could actually talk to. He laughed a little to himself and quickly pushed such sappy romantic drivel out of his head, maybe he'd think on this again when Edlin was free... and Rea was no longer haunting his mind (if that would ever happen), but now was certainly not the time to try to find the “right girl” for him. How quaint.

Besides, he wasn't really the marrying type.

Jack had told him once, that to witness demon slaughter was enough to leave your mind in ruins. He hadn't been kidding. Everything was different now. He wondered what Jack was like years ago, before he became burdened by whatever tragedies had befallen him. He probably smiled a lot more. Sometimes Lyndon felt a bit sorry for him.

Better than feeling sorry for himself at any rate.

The thief closed the door and locked it securely, satisfied that no one would come calling on them tonight. He came back to the bed and saw that Jack had his twin crossbows hanging on the bedpost and had already fallen fast asleep, snoring just barely. Lyndon smiled and leaned his large crossbow up against the bed carefully, within easy reach in case anything annoying happened. It was better to expect a disturbance and be prepared, than to be caught by surprise.

He couldn't deny he felt a little relief at seeing Jack asleep. That meant he was alright. Lyndon couldn't help but worry about him. Ever since he'd run himself into the ground and collapsed after Diablo's defeat, the scoundrel had started paying more attention to the man's health to make sure they avoided it ever happening again. It hadn't been a very nice time for anyone involved.

Lyndon snuffed out the extra candles on the mantle near the fireplace, the fire was dying down, casting flickering shadows over the warm orange glow in the room. He let it smolder, rather than put it out, enjoying the extra heat it cast. Lyndon came back to the bed and sat carefully, not wanting to wake the Demon Hunter who was normally a very cat-like sleeper. The scoundrel desperately wanted to avoid being strangled. Jack barely stirred though, apparently out hard.

Thank the gods for wine.

Lyndon pulled the blankets up and laid down, the blanket he'd borrowed earlier cocooned around him. He felt warm and cozy laying there, listening to the rain falling outside and the hiss of the fire flickering in the fireplace. The quilts and furs were heavy, a comforting weight. He was still confident that forcing the hunter to come here was the best idea he'd had all month, he'd never felt so bloody grateful to be out of the elements. Well, maybe that time when they were fighting at Bastion's Keep. That had been a damn bitter wind.

And Jack was warm, there was a furnace-like heat seeping from his curled body. It was not so bad sleeping next to him as Lyndon first thought it would be, there was a good foot of space between them, plenty of room to be comfortable. It was nice, and there was a feeling of safety that came with being so close to someone who had brought all of Hell to its knees.

It didn't take Lyndon very long to drift off.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=

 

 

He was rudely awoken by a something hard colliding with the back of his thigh, hard enough to bruise. A knee? It couldn't have been very long after they had turned in, but Lyndon had no concept of the time. Jack had shifted violently in his sleep and was now groaning low into the mattress, the pillow lost on the floor, clenching his fists in the blankets and twisting the fabric to its breaking point. His face was bathed in sweat and was contorted into a mask of pain and fear.

Another nightmare then. Good. Brilliant.

The hunter had them so frequently, almost nightly (until very recently? Out was hard to tell), that Lyndon was practically used to them now, but that didn't make seeing it happen any easier. A bit ashamed of them, Jack had told the thief not to try to wake him because he was afraid he would hurt him by accident in his disorientation. Jack had insisted that they were nothing to worry about and that he'd been managing them for most of his life. Rather than being reassured, the rogue found that to be terribly sad. The scoundrel sometimes wished that Jack would tell him what they were about, it might make them less frequent, but he usually left the man to his privacy.

Though Lyndon supposed he was one to talk, he had wretched dreams sometimes too and didn't speak about them either. His most recent one involved the hulking flay demons, twisting in their chains, tortured for eternity. That memory alone was horrifying enough, but then they had worn his brother's face. He had awoken afterward, soaked in sweat and shaking, and even now, thinking about it made his heart pick up speed. Jack had been out in the woods at the time, so he did not know about the nightmare. The relief that Lyndon wasn't seen was not enough to curb the fear of waking up alone in the woods, or the horror of what he had dreamt. Weighed down with fear and guilt, he had been unable to fall back asleep until long after Jack had returned.

At least he did not have such dreams as often as Jack did, otherwise he'd surely go mad. Akarat's tits, how did the hunter tolerate it?

Despite what Jack said, Lyndon found that it always worked out better for both of them if he woke him anyway, if he happened to be awake while Jack was dreaming. It spared the man some pain and enabled him to get back to sleep faster. Besides, Jack hadn't tried to kill him yet so far.

Well, hadn't tried to kill him often. It was best to wake him before the screaming started. Somewhat less common, but equally, if not more so unpleasant for anyone within earshot.

Lyndon sat up, wondering where all the blankets had gone, rerealizing the Demon Hunter was wrapped up in most of them. He grabbed the edge of a quilt and pulled it back over himself.

"Jack, wake up." Lyndon whispered tensely, placing a hand on his chest and shaking lightly. While they had slept they had moved much closer to each other, bodies touching, unconsciously seeking warmth. The hunter moaned, grimacing and twisting his fingers into the sheets while he turned his head to the side with a violent little shake.

"Jacky you're dreaming, wake up!" Lyndon said a little louder.

Jack opened his eyes with a gasp and a full body jerk, panting heavily. His eyes were flame warm in the dark and illuminated part of his face with the odd light that burned within them. He blinked at Lyndon, as though he didn't recognize him at first.

"Lyndon? Was I...?" He asked, a little disoriented.

"Yes, you were dreaming again." Lyndon said quietly, laying back down and dragging the newly freed blankets back over himself to banish the chill of the dark room. It was quiet for a few minutes, neither one of them speaking, and Lyndon wasn't sure if the Demon Hunter had fallen back asleep, but then he spoke again:

"I'm sorry I woke you." Jack whispered, the strange glow in his eyes gone now.

"Its alright, don't worry about it. Let's just... go back to sleep." Lyndon replied, feeling sluggish and tired. The Demon Hunter sighed and moved away from him, curling up tightly again.

Hmm.

“Unless, you... you don't want to talk about it... do you?” The scoundrel asked hesitantly, trying to be nice. He felt bad for him, truly he did.

It was quiet again for a few more moments, and Lyndon was afraid that he had made the taller man clam up as he often did when asked any sort of personal question that didn't directly involve his skill in killing Hellborn pests.

“It was about Leah.” Jack said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Of course it would be Leah. Would they ever truly stop thinking about her? How could they? How could he?

“I had one a few weeks ago, in the woods, I woke up and you-" He sighed. "It had been about my brother.” Lyndon confessed when Jack didn't say anything else. And he did feel slightly better for having told someone, even if he hadn't gone into the grisly details.

Neither of them offered anything more.

Jack was soon asleep again, breath deepening and evening out, much faster than Lyndon expected. Did he feel safe here? With four walls around him, rather than the open expanse of a dark field he claimed was so much safer? It was rare for the man to sleep through a night without waking and Lyndon pitied him. It had been worse when they were at Bastion's Keep, they had been fighting almost constantly for days and were only able to get a few hours of rest at a time. The hunter had gotten even less because of the dreams. Then he had stopped sleeping altogether and relied on health potions and sheer stubbornness to keep himself upright. They- he, Kormac, Eirena and the rest of their merry band- had been unaware of the man's terrible dreams for a long time, but they had become impossible for Jack to hide at the Keep.

When Diablo had been killed, that was when the hunter had been unable to continue as he had been. He had finally come to the end of his impressive limits. He'd been so exhausted that he had fallen ill and slept for nearly two full days. Lyndon had been beside himself with worry, much to the smug amusement of Eirena who had watched over the man's recovery.

He didn't understand why everyone had thought it was so odd that he cared about Jack. It was like everyone expected him to not give a tinker's damn about what had happened to him. Did he really come off as so uncaring? He could make friends too if he wanted. At least Eirena seemed to have changed her opinions of him. Kormac unfortunately less so.

But Jack thought he was alright enough, didn't he?

Feeling slightly depressed and a little lonely, Lyndon eventually fell back to sleep.

 

=+=+=+=+=

 

 

The door burst open at the witching hour, flooding the dark room with noise.

"FIRE! KILL THEM! _KILL THEM!_ "

Lyndon jerked awake and flailed, struggling to untangle himself from the blankets. _He couldn't see._ It was pitch black in the room now that the fire had burnt out. His hands found the familiar wooden handle of his crossbow and cocked it to fire before he was even fully awake. An arrow whistled by his head, ruffling his hair. There was a blossom of heat and wetness there, but he barely registered it. There were more of the light whooshing sounds of arrows flying and the tell tale thumps of them striking the wall, then the piercing sharpness of shattered glass. A sudden sound behind him made his blood crystallize in his veins and his spine tingle from top to bottom. A wretched howl. It sounded like a beast had been wounded. He couldn't look back if he wanted to, all his focus was involved in aiming at the shadowy shapes in the barely lit doorway. He had barely steadied his fingers upon the trigger when Jack began to fire.

The single hand-crossbow jutted just past Lyndon's head and the scoundrel turned to look at him but froze as Jack's arm came down hard on his shoulder to steady his aim. The hunter snarled like an animal, teeth bared and eyes blazing like hot coals in the dark.

" _BLEED YOU FILTH!_ "

Lyndon paled, there was more than just a well of hatred for Hell's ilk that emanated from the hunter this time, it was more than just a lust for battle. Jack looked as though he had finally come unhinged.

From the curve of his left shoulder protruded an arrow that had sunk deep into the muscle tissue and was bleeding heavily, black as ink. Dark shadows swelled and poured from the Hunter's shoulder blades like the vaporous mists produced by dry ice when submerged in water. They spread like the wispy glowing tendrils of angel wings, but blackened, devoid of any light and far more sinister. No longer did he even resemble the man Lyndon had come to call friend. He looked like a beast that had crawled from the deepest pits of Hell itself and had finally decided to cast off its flimsy mortal guise, revealing its true form, a demon of the Burning Hells and- _dear_ _Gods, is that what he'd been sleeping next to?_

There were five men that Lyndon could make out, firing volleys of arrows at them from the doorway, desperate to kill them. When Jack began loosing his arrows, three of them were annihilated near instantaneously. Humans had little to no physical defense against such powerfully enchanted arrows and the rogue remembered the cultists falling like bloodied leaves below Leoric's manor house. The hallway wall where the men had stood was evenly coated in a thick spray of blood and bone fragments. At least fifty arrows had been imbedded in the wall behind where the unfortunate men had been standing, creating deep cracks and scorch marks, crackling wildly amid the wash of gore.

As Lyndon became less disoriented and more awake, he realized just what was going on. He recognized some of the same men he had seen downstairs in the tavern earlier that evening. The unsavory ones that had been watching him. Even though they were trying to _kill_ them, the wild desperation in their shots told him that they were unskilled and were probably no better than poor farmers or local craftsmen.

And... and Jack was his friend. His friend that he'd teased not a week before for eating around the crust of his meager sandwich before eating the middle, and they'd traveled together for months and shared food and arrows every day and _he couldn't just let him kill like this-_

Fear made him hesitate, but he reached out anyway, "Stop, stop, Jack, they're just villagers! We _can't_!" At his touch, the Demon Hunter's arm seized as though it were part of some great failing machine, and Lyndon had just thrown a wrench into the works. The Hunter was drawn back from the cavernous depths of his hate, shuddering from the sudden transition from rage-haze to sharp self awareness. The arrows stopped, but the shadows remained and Jack blinked his candle eyes rapidly in the gloom, appearing slightly confused.

Lyndon stared at him stupidly before he remembered and aimed his crossbow at the doorway again. The only reason the two remaining men were still alive was because they had hastily dropped to the floor to avoid becoming human quivers. Jack had been so busy destroying the first three that he had simply ignored them. In all the confusion, Lyndon never got a chance to loose even a single arrow.

When Jack had stopped firing the two survivors scrambled to drop their weapons and hold up their hands in surrender.

“P-please don't shoot! Oh _please_!” A rather mousy looking man said, looking horrified at the carnage. A farmer then, or a butcher. Maybe a baker, _or a candlestick maker_ , Lyndon thought madly.

"David said your kind were m-murderers! "L-look what you've done!" The other man said, knees shaking, even as he pointed an accusing finger.

“Look what _we've_ done?!" Lyndon balked, suddenly beyond furious, "What about what _you've_ done you stupid git?! We were sleeping when you kicked in the damned door and attacked us!” Lyndon shouted back, crossbow tight in his grip, his fingers straining toward the release mechanism. "We've done _nothing_!"

Jack breathed out, crossbow slipping from nerveless fingers to clatter upon the floor and he brought a hand up to his bleeding shoulder. Dragging air through his teeth, he took several hard breaths through his nose. "Gods, we should have just slept in a field." He murmured. He closed his eyes briefly in what could have been anything from pain to guilt, then opened them again, fixing his burning gaze upon the men. "Why did you attack us?" He grit out tiredly. Lyndon felt that they both already knew the answer to that.

“D-David said that...you were Demon hunters and that you w-were going to slaughter the town!” The mousy man tentatively tried to explain without wetting himself, and _eugh_ , judging by the smell it seemed he only half succeeded. How embarrassing.

"This _David_ you keep mentioning? He sounds like a right idiot to me." Lyndon said quickly, aim unwavering. "As you can see the town still stands."

"He's dead now." The other dark haired man half whispered, staring at the blood pooling on the floor.

"My point precisely, if you think someone is a _Demon Hunter_ , it's probably best to _not_ attack them and their traveling companion. Demon hunters hunt _demons_ , not townsfolk you damned fool."

"But-"

"He's the one who saved Tristram from King Leoric. Perhaps you've heard of him? Big bloke, few cards short of a full deck, commanded the undead _skeleton army_ of Khanduras?!" Lyndon hissed. Some people could be so damned ungrateful. "It was a demon hunter named Jack who saved that town, THIS Demon Hunter, and if it wasn't for THIS Demon Hunter your _charming_ little town very probably, would not still exist."

"Lyndon-" Jack tried to interrupt. The hunter never bragged, but some situations benefited from the revelation of truths. Lyndon considered the fact that Jack had, among other things, near single handedly saved their world and the High Heavens from absolute destruction, but it was probably best to keep those stories to themselves. It was better, he thought, that most common folk were not made aware of how close they had come to being wiped off the world.

"You killed the skeleton king?" The braver man asked Jack, his voice tight with awed disbelief.

The hunter nodded slightly. Lyndon was a little upset that Jack was not backing him up, but something was clearly wrong with him. Well, something _aside_ from the arrow sticking out of his arm.

"I-I'm, I'm _sorry_ my Lord!" The mousy looking man stuttered, "Aye!" The other shouted quickly. "We didn't know! You're a _hero_ in these parts!" The two men practically fell on their faces in their haste to grovel and bow before them. "We're sorry!"

Jack turned away and closed his eyes in pained disgust at the sight. "I am neither a Lord nor a hero, please leave us in peace, we are leaving on the morrow and will trouble your town no longer." Jack said quietly. "If you're going to be sorry, be sorry for the men who died tonight because of a... _misunderstanding_." He finished, lip curling in distaste.

 _Is it so wrong to think of yourself as a hero?_ Lyndon thought. The scoundrel could think of none better to fit the definition.

The two men got to their feet and left hastily, apologetic and shaking. There were no bodies to remove but there was a rather wretched mess left to clean up, and though it was a nasty thought, Lyndon was very grateful that most of the gore was in the hallway so that they could at least go back to sleep in a relatively corpse free room. Jack was not speaking to him and looked rather upset. Lyndon was alright with this for the time being and left him to tend to his shoulder, still a little shaken by his ferocity.

Just another day as an adventurer! What _fun_ , he thought sarcastically.

He waited until the men were gone before he jumped up to shut the door. He poked his head out curiously and spotted the Innkeeper standing white faced at the end of the now candle-lit hallway. Lyndon offered him a wave and a weak grin, "Sorry!" he said quickly and pulled the broken door shut. Thinking quickly, he shoved their small dining table against the door to hold it closed as the lock and indeed part of the frame had been smashed to splinters in the initial kick of forced entry. He then shoved the fireplace wing chair there too for good measure. Sodding bastards wouldn't be coming back in, he'd make certain of _that_. The candles above the fireplace were lit with only a little difficulty, his hands shaky with nerves, and then he could see much better.

He groaned slightly as the candles illuminated the room, the place was a _mess_. There were arrows stuck everywhere! "Damn it to Hell!" he hissed, there were arrows in their clothes! Much of the hanging fabric was torn, they'd have to buy a few new things, or do some heavy duty repairs. He was terrible at sewing and often asked Eirena (who did it gladly) or Jack (which required _a_ _lot_ of begging and damage to the hunter's own clothes before it was even considered) to do it for him. He absently touched Jack's black cloak to pull a hanging arrow free, then yelped when a small bat flew out of a hidden pocket and hid itself in the window curtain. He gripped his chest, heart racing, an "I don't even _want_ to know." leaving his mouth breathlessly as he shook his head. Of course he would have a _bat_ now. Ravens and bats, weasels! He'd even had a spider briefly, adopted from the Caves of Aranaea, but after he had learned of Kormac's fear of them he had (reluctantly) let it go. Lyndon had not seen the two furry weasel things he had purchased in Lut Gholein for some time, he hoped they had not made a nest in his bag again. He was genuinely surprised the man didn't have fleas with all the beasts he kept around.

Lyndon felt a cold draft, the glass in three window panes was shattered, letting in frigid air. He stuffed a damp shirt in the hole to keep out the cold and- Jack had not moved and his entire arm was red with blood. Lyndon cursed under his breath and went to him.

Jack was staring at the blood congealing on the floor, off in his own head somewhere. Lyndon stared, beyond concerned for him. _Damn it_ , he didn't know what to do in situations like this! At the _very_ least Jack should have known better than to let that arrow stay there! It could be poisoned or rusty, or coated in any number of foul substances. Stupid stubborn bastard!

"What is the matter with you!?" Lyndon very nearly shouted at him, "Did you forget the bloody arrow in your- Gods... you're _shaking_!" Small tremors shook the hunter every few moments, everything about it screamed _wrong_. Jack didn't respond and sat there on the bed, tense and still. Black smoke still spilled from his shoulders and Lyndon recognized it as a reaction to pain. His eyes were bright and burning in his head. Was it shock? Blood loss? No, no... he'd seen him refuse to succumb with far worse injuries.

But he could not shake the sensation of wrongness about the whole thing. Something was _not_ right here.

Lyndon slowly sat down on the bed, unsure of what to do. Acting with little thought, He reached for his shoulders, almost afraid to touch him because of the dark shadows spilling forth. His hands came down as gently as he could make them. The shadows didn't hurt like he thought they might, but instead felt terribly cold, like the frozen wind that feathered through the walls of Bastion's Keep.

Jack jumped when he touched him, causing Lyndon to jump as well. "H-here, its alright, what is the matter?" Lyndon asked quietly. "Doesn't this hurt?" His hand strayed toward the arrow.

" _Get it out._ " Jack whispered, as though suddenly becoming aware of the arrow embedded in him.

"What? Oh... alright, just- a moment..." Lyndon murmured. At the angle it had pierced, it was difficult for Jack to reach the arrow successfully by himself, but at the very least he could ask a little more _politely_. Lyndon wrapped his hand around the thick shaft of wood, bracing his other hand on the man's skin. The muscles were hard as wrought iron from use of the bow and taught with pain. And Lyndon was wondering how to get this out without making it worse. He was no healer and by _Akarat_ it was in there deep, it might even have been touching bone.

"Fast." Jack breathed.

“Don't be a damned fool!” Lyndon snapped at him. Gods, did he _want_ it to hurt? Jack stared holes in the floor and Lyndon grit his teeth, pulling experimentally. The hunter made not a sound. It was in there deep all right, he had to pull it out carefully or it would only tear the muscle more, Jack's ridiculous impatience be damned.

The wood was slippery, slick with blood and it took him a few minutes to get the arrow out. He did the best he could and throughout the process Jack said nothing, didn't react, there was not even a gasp of pain, but he had briefly closed his eyes before opening them again when Lyndon finally managed to pull the damned thing free of him. It was good that the tip was not barbed or he would have had to slice it out with a blade.

More blood welled up alarmingly and poured out of the wound, the sharp odor of it like new coppers, filling his nostrils and curling in the back of his throat. Exasperated with Jack's sudden lack of interest in his own well being, Lyndon grabbed the man's other arm and forced his hand over the bleeding hole while he looked for something to wrap it with.

He angrily pawed through their bags and found some strips of cloth they reserved for bandages, just in case. He grabbed the lot and the pitcher of water on the bedside table.

Furious, Lyndon rounded on Jack for the second time, grabbing his injured arm perhaps a little more roughly then he meant to. "Do you want to bleed out all over the place?! Don't you care about yourself?!” Lyndon asked angrily. Jack still did not answer him, and merely let the thief do whatever he wanted. Furious, Lyndon held the man's arm out over the floor to avoid messing the bed and poured water over it, rinsing the blood away. Not like a little extra blood in the boards would matter right? They were already painted. He soaked some fabric in water and washed the wound quickly before binding it firmly. He hoped it was enough, because this was the extent of his healing knowledge. One good reason to miss that idiot Templar he supposed.

"Why won't you say anything?" Lyndon finally asked, at a loss, frustration and worry swirling thick inside him.

“You're afraid of me.” The hunter stated quietly. Lyndon blinked hard, he _had_ been afraid, but it had only been for a moment.

“No. I'm afraid _for_ you.” The thief retorted.

Jack looked away and at the bloodied floor.

"Jacky, what _is_ it?" Lyndon pleaded quietly.

Jack blinked slowly at the use of his least favorite nickname. "I've become her." The hunter finally murmured.

"You've- What?" Lyndon said, terribly confused.

“The Demon Hunter who murdered this town a year ago, I-I've become her.” He was still trembling every few moments and Lyndon finally reached out to him, placing a careful hand upon his uninjured shoulder. _To steady him_ , he told himself. The hunter tensed, but didn't try to shrug him off, which was concerning in and of itself.

“Jack, what are you talking about? Who murdered the town?” Lyndon asked quietly.

Jack closed his glowing eyes for a moment, appearing to gather himself. He swallowed, blinking rapidly.

"Before I came to Tristram, I was the best recruit the Demon Hunters had ever seen.” Lyndon noted that he said this with no trace of pride, it was stated as merely a fact. “As part of my “graduation” test. I was given a mission to kill a demon, Draxiel, residing in some ruins located in the southern Dreadlands. My partner and guide was a more experienced hunter named Valla." Jack explained quietly. He had never spoken of his life before coming to Tristram, though he had asked Lyndon many times about his and the lives of their friends. Lyndon eagerly digested this new information.

"She was another favorite among our ranks. She and I... didn't get along. She was _abrasive_ and tended to act rashly. Even though our training was not a competition, she hated me for being the best at the techniques we were taught." He continued. Lyndon listened with rapt attention, wondering where this was going.

"When we were in the ruins... I... succumbed to the demon's influence and attempted to attack her.” He murmured with some shame. “What I didn't know at that time, was that the demon had tricked me and had taken her form. I was nearly killed but I was saved by my mentor Josen and the _real_ Valla." Jack said, shuddering at the memory.

"The whole thing had been a test, set up by Josen and I had _failed_." He growled with some hint of lingering anger, "After that, I began to study with Josen personally to overcome my weaknesses. He said... that I was a _special_ case among them, and he wanted to help me. It wasn't long after that, that we heard that Valla had succumbed to her hatred and the influence of a foul demon.”

"After, we learned of Valla's corruption. I was forbidden to interfere because Josen told me I was not ready, but I insisted and accompanied him anyway." Jack continued. Lyndon smiled. It was very much like him to ignore the advice of others. "We saw what she had done to Holbrook. Just being here... all I can see are the _dead._ ”

Lyndon swallowed, feeling his gut twist. Why hadn't Jack said something? Lyndon wouldn't have made him stop here if he had only _known_.

“Josen went to Bramwell, expecting to find her there. I was sent to Havenwood where she was rumored to have passed through. When I got there, children were possessed by some demon and were murdering their own families, and after, the townsfolk." Lyndon grimaced, imagining the horror of that sight. His fingers trailed down the hunter's arm and came to rest at his elbow.

"I had to subdue them, but I managed to not have to kill any." The hunter explained.

"That's why that man said "Remember Havenwood?" Lyndon interrupted suddenly, "But what happened after?"

"I learned that there was a river that ran beneath the town through a network of caves, I guessed that this was likely where the demon responsible for Valla's corruption was hiding. She had fallen so far, that her very _presence_ spread evil.” Jack said. “The demon had finished with her apparently and had turned his sights on the town, while she moved on to Bramwell to slaughter all she came across. I left to find the demon, not waiting for my mentor. I nearly drowned trying to enter the underground channel." Jack uttered, twisting his fingers into the blanket in his lap at the memory.

"It-" He began again, breath deepening and coming a little faster.

"It... used the memories I had against me, of my village being slaughtered, burning, my mother, my _family_... everything I had lost." Jack grit out, rage and pain emanating from him.

Lyndon was silent and listening with an acuteness as if Jack were telling him where to dig up a mountain of gold. The scoundrel had always burned with curiosity to know more. He wasn't sure what he expected but he knew it couldn't be _good_ based on Jack's personality, but even still, he wasn't expecting this... _horror_.

The sad circumstances of his own life paled in comparison.

"It almost... _took_ me, but I looked back into its mind. The most dangerous thing a Demon Hunter can do." He hissed. "I learned that he was really Valdraxxis, once an important demon in Hell, but led a failed campaign and was cast out to our realm." Jack growled, "I looked into him and saw, as he had done to me and only then was I able to strike him down." Jack had stopped shaking now, but still seemed distraught. Lyndon was in awe, he had seen the man's incredible fighting abilities, but had only seen fleeting glimpses of the powers gifted to him by his Nephalem ancestry, and when he witnessed them, they were frightening. He had no idea that the Demon Hunters had developed such a dangerous ability. But if anyone could master such a dangerous skill, it would be Jack.

"Then you won then, didn't you? You saved Havenwood and its people and they were grateful to you were they not?" Lyndon asked quietly.

"Yes, but I was not there soon enough to save them from the pain of murdered families. I think... that it was _my_ fault that Valla fell to corruption.” Jack murmured.

“What!? How could that possibly be your fault?” Lyndon exclaimed, confused by the hunter's willingness to take the blame for so much death.

“I think... the reason she left us, the reason she had so much hate, was because _I_ was chosen over her to study with Josen. She had wanted it so badly, had even succeeded in the test where I had failed, but I was chosen anyway. She was angry and her anger made her vulnerable. _Hate begets terror and terror begets destruction as destruction begets hate_.” Jack recited cryptically. “Every demon hunter is taught this, the law of The Three. The _Prime_ evil.”

“I did not notice her hate, so wrapped up as I was in my own failings and angers.” The hunter continued. “I did not see that she had succumbed, I did not _look_ into her and because of this I did not save _this_ town, or Bramwell, or prevent the tragedies in Havenwood, and those that remained to rebuild, look upon me and all Demon Hunters with fear and hatred." Jack finished darkly. He pulled his arm away from Lyndon and cradled his wounded shoulder as if it had only just then begun to hurt.

"You've told us before not to grieve over what you could not know or control. 'What's done is done,' you've said! Why are you no longer following your own advice?!" Lyndon asked anxiously.

"I can't escape this, this war will never end for me." Jack responded, as if he hadn't heard him.

"Don't be absurd, you _stopped_ the war, you saved the whole _world_! I know, because I was there, remember?" Lyndon stated, frustrated by the pain that made Jack unable to see reason. There was something else he was holding back.

"Don't you understand? It doesn't matter what I've done, kill demon lords, save villages, _worlds_. None of that matters to them, they will always look at me as if I am a monster. Demon Hunters are seen as an omen of death. I must get used to this. I can have _no_ attachments." Jack said with quiet pain.

"Jack you're not-" Lyndon interjected.

"I am. I _know_ that now. How can I continue to help anyone if I am... cursed with this _taint_? This... demonic blood of my ancestors? I am no better than they are, I could lose control. With every demon I come into contact with, the risk increases. You _saw_ , you saw what I did!" Jack hissed and held his firing arm against his chest tightly as if it had betrayed him.

"You are the _best_ person I know, the finest warrior to walk this miserable ball of dirt and more noble than I can tolerate. It does not matter what they think! Ignorant, blind _villagers_! You will _never_ go down that path, you're much too good for that. It-It wasn't your fault, they attacked _us_ and we reacted _._ There was nothing different to be done! Sometimes there is no choice." He argued anxiously.

"Why do you care so much? About what people think?" Lyndon pressed.

"Not people. Kormac... Eirena. _You_." Jack murmured. Lyndon blinked in disbelief.

 _Oh_...

"It is said that when a demon peers into you, Lyndon, into the deepest recesses of your mind, then you may peer back if you know how. And then you will see only vengeance. Only the hunt. And your eyes will burn with its obsession. I have done this, _more_ than once. I did it with every demon lord I slew." Jack revealed.

Lyndon did not respond, he knew how Jack's eyes burned.

"I didn't even think before I shot them." Jack murmured with quiet despair. "I'm _losing_ myself." He brought his hands up to his face and buried them in his hair.

"Stop it now, you were _asleep_! I barely knew what was going on because I'd just woken up as well! I could have died you know, an arrow went right by my head. You basically saved my life... _again_." Lyndon said gently, resting a hand on the man's back. He had to do _something_ to calm him. Jack seemed like he might be going round the bend.

"Yes, you're bleeding." Jack said quietly. Lyndon raised a hand to the side of his head where he felt the arrow fly by. His fingers came away bloody and he wiped at the cut with the wet cloth he had left in his lap.

"It's fine, it doesn't even hurt." He said absently.

"What if it had been different Lyndon, and it was you who had thrown open the door and startled me awake? You'd be dead now because of my carelessness." Jack whispered, barely audible.

“I think you're forgetting how I _usually_ enter a room.” Lyndon chided, attempting to be humorous. “Normally I don't kick the door in and fire an arrow into your arm!” He said with a weak laugh. Jack did not smile.

"I became too comfortable and it made me weak. I shouldn't have drunk anything... I shouldn't have eaten so much. Distractions like that, they take away control!"

"What? By _sleeping_? _Eating_? Having a little _wine_? Jack that's simply absurd... it's unfortunate that those men died, but we both attacked in self defense. You can't just give up every little thing on just the chance that something could happen! You have to live your gods-damned life! We've killed people, innocents have died, yes, but you've... you've never been _like_ this before!” Lyndon fretted.

“What are you not telling me?" Lyndon asked with quiet desperation.

Jack looked away then, jaw clenched tight.

"Please tell me, I can't help if I don't know the situation." Lyndon begged, unknowingly repeating the very same words Jack had said to him when he'd been reluctant to talk about his brother.

"The demon... under Havenwood.” The hunter began hesitantly, as if attempting to speak in a poorly learned foreign language. “It took the form of my sister." Jack finally ground out.

"Y-your... _sister_? Lyndon replied, barely more than a whisper. He immediately felt his gut twist with guilt for having asked him about sisters, lovers or female companions so many times. Gods what an _ass_ he'd been.

"My younger sister and I, we had escaped from the burning of our village when the demons came, we ran deep into the woods, I remember holding her hand so tightly as we ran." Jack breathed, beginning to tremble again. "I was 14 summers then, she was 8. We lived out in the wilderness for weeks, living off the land, we had nowhere else to go, but it was hard for her. It was hard for both of us but it was harder for her, she was so _young_." Jack whispered, breathing too shallowly.

 _So were you_ , Lyndon thought wretchedly.

"It's alright, breathe." Lyndon said, feeling himself panicking in his lack of direction for how to act. He was struggling to figure out how to help this man, a person he was beginning to realize he barely knew, even after spending _months_ with him. He grasped the hunter's hand tightly, offering him a physical anchor.

Jack sucked in a breath. "We both had nightmares, we saw our family murdered over and over again in our dreams, But one night, she could not take it any longer, she ran out into a storm and... I chased after her, trying to get her to come back." Jack whispered, agonizing over the tale. "She thought I was a demon and wouldn't _stop_ , she slipped and fell at the edge of a rushing river and I grabbed her hand. I said I wouldn't let go but it was raining so much and our hands were wet." Jack's voice cracked and he turned away from Lyndon.

Lyndon held his hand tightly, almost bruisingly strong, he loosened his hold when he realized what he was doing.

"My fingers were so cold I couldn't tighten my grip. She slipped away from me. Then I had tricked myself into believing that she was alive and living somewhere else, somewhere _safe_. This is what the demon saw within me, this memory I had repressed. This is what Valdraxxis used to nearly destroy me." Jack said, Lyndon sat in stunned silence, staring at the hunter with shock written clearly on his face. “That _town_. The river below. All I can think of is her.”

"Then Leah. Gods, how I failed her." Jack said brokenly. "She reminded me so much of my sister, her spirit, her smile. I didn't see what her mother was until it was far too late. I should have _looked_ into her, but like a fool I trusted her... and now Leah is gone."

“None of us knew who she really was. You could not have known such a thing, she had been planning this for _years_.” Lyndon offered quietly.

“Couldn't I have? Zultan Kulle tried to warn me, but I ignored him as well. Sometimes I wonder if killing him had even been _right_.” Jack said miserably.

“Well, he may have been right about _Adria_ , but he was a dusty, dried up old wizard who wanted nothing more than the _world_ beneath his boot heel. What would he have done if left alone hm? Been the next threat? I think you were right to kill him.” The thief argued.

“Perhaps.” Jack conceded."But I can't help feeling it was Adria's design that he was killed. Leah was _so like_ my sister, and I failed them both.” He whispered. “Any Inn we stay at it, is just a reminder of the dream she'll never get to fulfill."

“It's no one's fault but Adria's. She'll pay for what she's done.” Lyndon replied quickly, then they both went quiet for a time.

Jack had been bottling this up for a long while. His mind was rotting with his perceived failures. This was eating at him worse than anything ever had and he was close to his breaking point. Jack hid it well, but he was _very_ damaged. His mental state was deteriorating as his powers grew stronger and stronger. Not a very good combination at all. He was living to kill Adria and get revenge for Leah and beyond that he saw little else. Jack _needed_ to keep killing creatures of Hell to atone for things he thought were his fault. He needed to do this to keep his very sanity. If he stopped, if the battles _ever_ ended, he'd fall apart, go mad or both. He looked more and more terrifying every time he fought, more demonic and vicious. Gods, he'd be sprouting horns and wings next.

Jack needed a break, he needed to not _think_ for a while and calm his mind. Lyndon was trying his best, but he wasn't sure how to help him.

"I cannot... allow myself to care for anyone, lest they be taken from me and used as a weapon against my mind by the demons. I don't know if I can survive that again. I don't know if I am strong enough." Jack's voice broke and he pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes and trembled.

"Jack." Lyndon murmured, stroking lightly at his shoulders, unsure of what else to do. Jack let him, which went a long way with helping Lyndon feel better, even if Jack was still pained. How long had it been since someone had offered him a comforting touch? How long since he had last _allowed_ himself to be comforted? _Years_?

The hunter did not cry, Lyndon wasn't sure if he even _could_ anymore, he only breathed in and out purposefully. When he finally put his hands down, his eyes were damp but they weren't glowing any longer. He looked as tired as he did the day Diablo was defeated.

"H-Halissa... her n-name was Halissa. It was m- _my_ fault, if only I'd-" Jack began again, his voice trembling.

"Shhhh, enough. It wasn't your fault. None of this was your fault." Lyndon said softly, continuing the light touch. He wasn't good at this sort of thing, he didn't know how to comfort people. Lyndon tried to go with his gut and do what felt right, what felt like _helping_.

They sat there for some time, Lyndon trying to be a comforting presence while Jack struggled to hold himself together.

"Um, Jack..." Lyndon began, wondering if this was what he should be saying. "You- you can't go your whole life avoiding people, not getting attached. It’s a lonely existence, believe me I _know_." Lyndon explained gently. "What about Eirena and Kormac? They're your friends aren't they? Haedrig and Shen... And you and I? You asked me to come with you after Diablo and the Prime or whatnot was killed. You taught me about weapon enchantment, tolerated my chatter, trusted me enough to _tell_ me all this. Why? If you wanted to be alone so badly?" Lyndon asked hesitantly, afraid to upset the hunter even more.

"Because I am weak." Jack admitted quietly, still as stone.

"Its not _weak_. Its human, Jack." Lyndon argued. "Its human nature to want to be with other people, not a _weakness_ to be pushed away."

"I'm _not_ human." Jack growled, pulling away from the scoundrel. "I'm practically a demon. People that spend time with me tend to get killed." Jack said bitterly.

"You forget that Tyrael said that Nephalem are born of both angels and demons, that's why you have both good and evil, why humans have both good and evil." Lyndon argued. “You're as human as I, though a decidedly more _talented_ one. And besides, _I'm_ still here, you haven't let me die yet!" He laughed weakly.

"I thinks its clear which ancestor I take after more." Jack replied tiredly, getting worn down from their talk. "If I lose control, you could die. A lot of people could die." Jack stated.

"I don't want you to die." He admitted. The quiet fear in his voice took Lyndon by surprise. "Sometimes when I'm killing them, I feel like I'm going _insane_." The hunter confessed. "I feel like I can't control what I'm doing."

"You said that your eyes burn because the demon's make you live for vengeance, but if you can live for something... _other_ than that hate, don't you think that you'll have control again? Don't you think living for something else will make you stronger? If you drown yourself in one thing, there's no _balance_. No _discipline_ as you're so fond of saying. You don't have to keep going this. Let us be friends to you." The scoundrel offered. “We can help you, I just know it.”

Jack looked at him silently, surprise on his tired face.

"I know I don't appear to be very _serious_ at times. Well, most of the time." Lyndon began, "When the woman I loved went to my brother instead, I knew that it wasn't his fault, but I refused to let anyone else in after that. I pushed him away, even though he was my brother, my only _family_." Lyndon admitted. This seemed like the right thing to say, it might help Jack realize that he was serious about wanting to help him.

"I didn't know what to feel about what had happened to him. If I hadn't been so careless... I became selfish after, I closed myself off, stopped caring. I used people so they wouldn't use me first. I mean... I was always a little on the _bad_ side, but for a long time I thought I was rotten to the core." Lyndon said, wiping at the cut on his head again.

"I thought that helping you slay the demon lords would make me a good person again, but you told me that I was a good person already. I thought you were just trying to make me feel better in case I didn't make it, but...I realized you were _right_ , and I had just buried it so deeply I couldn't see it. Didn't want to see it. It was easier to pretend I didn't _care_." Lyndon whispered.

"I realized... that its alright to feel something and let other people help. It made me feel better...when you asked me about my brother and my life. I know I was angry at first... but I felt _better_ after I told you." He finished quietly. "It's alright to give a damn."

Jack just stared at him in quiet disbelief, blanket pooled around his legs. He blinked softly and glanced down, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a weak smirk. "Sometimes you still surprise me Lyndon." He murmured softly.

"Well, you can be a bit thick sometimes." Lyndon laughed, relieved, it felt _good_ to laugh. He looked at the tired hunter warmly, taking in his features. He still looked like a bit of a wreck. His eyes were bloodshot with dark circles under them, face pale and a bit bloodied. But Jack was smiling slightly, a rather _fetching_ expression on him. He should smile more often. He was looking much better, and dare he say, more together than he had all night.

"I'm surprised you can tolerate me, you and Kormac, Eirena, Haedrig... _Shen_. You should hate and _fear_ me, what I could _become_." Jack admitted worriedly.

"Don't say such nonsense, they say so many nice things about you when you're not around, its enough to make me sick." Lyndon laughed. "I like you very much. And besides, there are worse people around, a thieving rat like me for instance, Haha! _I_ should be asking how you lot can tolerate _me_!"

The hunter looked away uncertainly and squeezed his injured arm, looking a bit pale. The smile was gone now.

Lyndon gazed at him, wondering why Jack thought himself so worthless and unworthy of love. He was a good person. Very noble. Not bad looking either, strong, loved animals and was _mysterious_ or some such drivel. Traits that would have women falling over themselves to get at him, if only he would _allow_ it. Lyndon could only claim charm and good looks. If only he could _show_ the Demon Hunter how valuable he was, show him that he could be more than just a living weapon. He could have a _life_ beyond this endless fighting and experience all the joys that came with the mortal world. Lyndon theorized that Jack hadn't really lived since he was 14 all those years ago, his chance at happiness having been cruelly ripped away from him.

That was a long time to be alone. Perhaps if Lyndon-

He had a sudden though. A _mad_ thought.

He decided to do something then that might have been a little stupid.

"How's this for a surprise?" Lyndon rumbled, then leaned in and gently captured the Demon Hunter's mouth with his own.

Well, maybe a _lot_ stupid.

 


	4. Cloak of Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longest and most difficult to write of all the chapters (mostly because of this being my first time writing sexual content). It would have been the last chapter, but I decided it was getting a bit too long and split it up (I like to keep chapters around 5 to 7k words). 
> 
> Sorry that this took eons to post. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> \--------------------------------------

_Beneath her cloak of feathers_  
_lies a body soft and fine_  
_eyes of hazel green_  
_flowing hair as dark as wine_.  
― _Cloak of Feathers_ , The Sword

 

=Talinn, Westmarch 1279=

There was little left of the small village when the Demon Hunters arrived, the renegade pack of demons had come some weeks before and left a smoking, blackened collection of ruins and rotting death in their wake. Nothing they had not seen many times before, but it was always hard when they arrived too late. While they were saddened by the deaths of so many innocents, they felt it would be useful to investigate and determine where the demons might have gone.

The thought that anyone might have _survived_ such a slaughter did not even occur to them.

That is why they had been so surprised to find the boy.

He had lain limply in the center of town, sprawled before three burial crosses that towered over him, casting their long, crooked shadows over the dirtied cobblestone. At first glance, they assumed him dead, he lay so quiet and still, but strangely, he was untouched by decay or carrion birds. If he had died in the attack, he would have been picked apart long ago. When one of Josen's officers touched him, the boy had jumped up and attacked him. He had snarled and bit and kicked with such ferocity that it took three strong hunters to wrestle the child into submission. He was so maddened by grief that he could not be calmed for some time, yet there had been no fear in his eyes.

Just hate and despair.

Where the others saw a broken soul too far gone, a lost cause, the leader of the Demon Hunters saw great potential.

Hours later, Josen regarded the boy steadily, Jack, his name was. He was wrapped in a cloak, seated before him, looking much different, _better_ now that he had been fed and washed. Less beyond hope and more the young man he would grow into. Josen's tent had been carefully erected and a small camp had been made in the ruined town. The other hunters itched to move on, but respected their leader's wishes. They had learned from tracks they had found and Jack's halted speech when questioned, that he and his sister had survived the initial attack and fled into the forest where they had lived for some weeks, until the sister (younger than the boy, he assumed) had perished. Jack had apparently taken her body back to town and buried her, along with what he could find that remained of his parents.

A grim task for one so young. The poor boy appeared to have already given up, he had lain in the center of town before the graves of his family, waiting for death.

“How did your sister die?” Josen asked him gently.

Jack stared at him, or rather through him, for some moments before speaking. “Is this a test?” The boy asked him, stone faced. Josen smiled. The boy was sharp, he liked that. “Everything is a test, even life itself.” He replied. Jack went quiet, then spoke again. “She awoke in the night during a storm and ran from me, thinking that I was a demon. She fell into the river and drowned.” He answered hollowly.

Josen nodded, more as a confirmation to himself than in acknowledgment of what Jack had told him.

“I have a proposition for you my boy.” He began seriously.

“I am the leader of an _order_ of sorts who's base lies far to the north in the Dreadlands. We recruit ones such as yourself who have survived when all others have not. You have been here alone for some time and have not fallen to the corruption that rots this place or the madness of what you have seen.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak but Josen held up a hand to quiet him. “Should you choose to join us, the life you led before, your intended profession and everything you have ever known will be left behind. However, do not mistake this as a demand to _forget_ the life you had, because when the fighting is done, your memories and your humanity will be all you have left.”

The boy blinked at him and furrowed his brow in confusion, questions appearing to form in his mind.

“I will not ask you to forsake the pleasures of the flesh, friendship or love. This is not a _religious_ order. Perhaps it would be better to use the word _organization_ or... _calling_.” Josen continued with a smile. “We only ask for determination, dedication and discipline, not to mention strength of character. I understand that the person you were before has been slain. But here you sit, though, as someone new.” Josen said conversationally while Jack watched his every movement. “Your new self was born from the spilled blood of your parents and the people you knew and loved, then baptized in the river that took your sister. You were given a _second life_ , it is yours to do with as you wish. Say the word and we will leave you to die at the feet of the graves of your family, if that is what you truly want. But if you wish to join us, you are welcome to join the hunt.” Josen offered calmly, “I believe that children are often wiser than we give them credit for, you are almost a young man, more than capable of making your own choices.”

“I'm sorry sir.” Jack interrupted quietly, voice raw from screaming after a period of disuse, “But I'm not quite sure what you are asking, what kind of organization is this? What _hunt_? What do you want from me?” He questioned, suspicion and confusion present in his blue-green eyes.

Josen stared at him, despite what this youth had experienced, how _long_ he had been left alone with the horrors he had seen, he was clear minded and bore a wisdom beyond his years. Where other children might have screamed hysterically or cried, this boy sat up straight before him and did not shed a tear.

“You hate demons don't you?” The master Hunter asked evenly.

“ _Yes_.” Jack answered, rage flaring in his eyes, burning away the earlier despair.

“Your hatred for those that have done this to you burns within you brighter than any sun. I only ask that you temper your hatred with discipline. If it will not go away, and trust me, it will _not_ , turn it into something useful. Give it a _direction_ , a _target_.” Josen explained carefully, steepling his fingers. “This we can teach you.” He looked Jack directly in the eye. “I will ask you this once and only once my son; Do you wish to _hunt_ demons?”

There was no hesitation.

“Yes.” Jack replied fiercely.

Josen smiled.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=

 

Lyndon's slumbering desires had long been unknown to him. This was unusual. He tended know exactly what he wanted at all times, be it person, item, or edible. But he had not been made aware of how badly he wanted the Demon Hunter until it was actually _happening_. He'd known he'd crossed the threshold between ignoring Jack and caring about him long ago, he valued the hunter's companionship more than any other person he had come into contact with, but he had not quite appreciated just how close to the precipice of the chasm of desire he had come until just this very moment.

And oh, how he _wanted_.

Jack smelled like smoke, wet dirt and leather, mixed with the ever familiar coppery odor of fresh blood. There was no trace of the overpowering perfumes of flowers and lavender that he was so used to. The difference was at once intoxicating and lit his nerves on fire. It had been _far_ too long since last he'd been with someone.

The Demon Hunter went still and tense, hands curled into claws, jumping up reflexively. Lyndon expected him to pull back immediately and curse him, strike him, shove him away, but he didn't. Instead, Jack's hands found their way to Lyndon's shoulders and he twisted them tightly into the fabric there. His mouth opened slightly (probably in surprise) and Lyndon wasted no time in swiping his tongue inside, testing, _tasting_ , and wondering just how far he was going to take this.

Desire prayed it would be to a logical conclusion, but sense and self preservation eventually won out and he reluctantly pulled away, though not before nipping at Jack's bottom lip with his teeth, pulling a startled, but quickly stifled noise from him.

Lyndon was immediately aware he was half hard _already_ and they were both panting. Jack stared wide eyed at him with a look like he'd taken a serious blow to the head from a Colossal Golgor. The scoundrel felt a little guilty, despite how much he had enjoyed it.

  
"Hahaha. What can I say? I couldn't _help_ myself." Lyndon said a little sheepishly to fill the sudden silence, his smile a bit weak.

The dark haired hunter continued to stare at him with a bizarre expression that looked like a mixture of shock, confusion and the barest trace of fear. He still had not released Lyndon's shoulders from the death grip he held them in. In any other situation, Lyndon would have found this amusing, but he couldn't muster the will to laugh at the poor sod. He was too busy coming to grips with the rush of dumb animal lust that had rolled over him from just one daft kiss. Just harmless fun though, right?

Lyndon sighed softly and rolled his eyes, accepting defeat. "Alright, I'm _sorry_. You look like you've just been tortured or something. I won't do it again. Cross my heart."

Jack didn't say anything, but pulled at the rogue's shoulders slightly while staring rather wildly at his mouth. Lyndon couldn't ignore such an obvious cue and he wasn't exactly known for keeping his promises anyway. He suddenly thought of Itherael saying that the pair of them were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen, well, if he was still watching them... he'd give that peeping tom something to look at alright! He leaned forward slowly and kissed Jack again, and this time Jack's mouth opened immediately with a weak sound. Lyndon grabbed his head and pulled him in, and their kiss deepened.

Lyndon moaned into the other man's mouth, he had _missed_ this. The number of men he had fooled around with had been few and far between. They had also been considerably more... _feminine_ than Jack was, but still. Even though he had his preferences, he didn't really care. He never had, just about anyone was fair game, if they were pretty enough and said _yes_. It had been a while, months even and Jack was- well, he was the dashing war hero wasn't he?

And _damn_ if he didn't want him.

Despite his considerable skills in combat, Jack was terrible at kissing. Lyndon should have guessed, he seemed rather naive about the many social graces of flirting and fornication. He'd obviously never been with a girl before. Jack had actually believed that Lyndon was going to get married to that miller's daughter he'd been with when they'd first met! Sarah? Susan? It didn't matter. It was almost endearing how loyal the man was to such old fashioned romantic ways.

Jack's bottom jaw trembled slightly from nerves and he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands or with Lyndon's tongue in his mouth. He was a fast learner though, and soon they were going at it like eager kids, stopping only to suck mouthfuls of each others exhalations.

Lyndon grinned at the hunter, hoping to relieve some of the anxiety, and pushed him back against the headboard and pillows with some difficulty. Jack seemed unwilling to let go of him and Lyndon wanted to be careful of his wounded arm. He knelt over him and went to kiss him again, but moved to attack the pale column of Jack's throat instead, making him groan and shiver.

"Lyndon-" Jack gasped. " _Please_." Lyndon hummed against his throat, dragging his mustache over sensitive skin. The scoundrel paused to search Jack's eyes, finding them unfocused and heavy lidded. Please what? Please ravish me? Please help me forget? Please let me escape? Please _stop_? From his voice, it sounded like it could have been any of those. _Maybe all of them_. And with the begging tone of his words Jack had practically given him permission to do _whatever_ he wanted, which made a hot pool of arousal uncurl in his gut like a wakening beast. Jack released his shoulders and curled his arms around the scoundrel's neck, holding him there tightly as Lyndon brought the flat of his tongue to where neck met shoulder and lapped and kissed at his skin, making the hunter shudder and growl from the sensation. The arms around his neck tightened and he had a sudden thought that Jack was probably strong enough to tear his head off, but he decided not to let that bother him.

He managed to get in between the hunter's long legs and wrapped an arm around his lower back, grinding their hips together. His efforts were rewarded with a low cry, then another, and another still as Lyndon rocked against him slowly.

The thief let his free hand skim over Jack's chest, working quickly to undo the ties of his tunic, string so worn it was barely holding the shirt together. He grit his teeth a bit in frustration as he fumbled with the fastenings in his eagerness. He wanted _skin_ damn it! He finally got the shirt open without ruining it, then off with a bit more difficulty with Jack's bandaged arm and his unwillingness to be anything slightly more flexible than a statue. Then it was warm chestnut skin, and- alright, no, there weren't any curves here, just bony hips and hard planes of sinewy muscle and a dark patch of chest hair that traveled down to end at his navel. The Demon Hunter wasn't what he would have called _pretty_ , with his gangly stature, too large hands, beakish nose, and cords traveling his long arms like vines climbing a tree. But his face was a bit pretty framed by his fluffy black hair. His eyes especially so, long lashes shading a bright blue. It had admittedly been a while since Lyndon had had another man in his bed, but it wasn't like he'd just _forget_ there wouldn't be anything like tits right? _Right_. But somehow it was still a bit of a surprise. No matter, he could still appreciate and nipples were sensitive no matter who you were.

The temptation to have his way with the Demon Hunter was nearly overwhelming and from the way Jack was tense as a bowstring, and as unmoving as a corpse, he must have expected Lyndon to take him up on what he had so subtly offered. Gods Lyndon _wanted_ to, he wanted to do _more, harder, faster_.

Feeling shaking hands hesitantly slide up his arms while Jack averted his eyes and chewed on his bottom lip nervously, made Lyndon feel a little ashamed and he reigned himself in. “It's alright.” He breathed, forcing his touch to become light and soothing. "We don't- We can... stop. If you want." Lyndon didn't often think things through and had a tendency to rush headfirst into most situations, but Jack definitely required a careful hand. Truthfully, the temptation to push the other man down, tear his infuriating black trousers off and bury himself in his body, was almost too much. Lyndon had never been one to deny himself pleasure in any piece of his life, but if he made a mistake, pushed too far, and acted purely on his base desires, Jack might pull away, withdraw, and never want to do this ever again. With _anyone._

"N-no. I-I want-" Jack was able to insist before his face turned impossibly redder. Lyndon offered him a disarming smile.

"Then just relax. It's supposed to be fun." Lyndon said brightly, and kissed him again. _There would be plenty of time for more later._ Lyndon couldn't quite be sure where that confident thought had come from and didn't much care. He'd think more on it... well, _later_.

What Jack was, _who_ he was, demanded a certain degree of patience from Lyndon. He'd been known to be able to scrape some together from time to time, despite what most people may have thought. Sometimes he could focus rather intensely for long periods of time. Really, he was alright at being patient if the situation called for it, and if Jack needed to forget for a while, Lyndon could do that _very_ well. He would make him forget his own name in a couple of minutes.

Lyndon waited until the trembling stopped before he resumed the fluid movements of his hips and slowly ran his tongue up the side of Jack's neck again. The Demon Hunter dragged air through his teeth and shook minutely, his hands clenching impossibly tighter, threatening to tear fabric. Jack had no business making pretty noises like that. Lyndon smiled a little, his mind racing with possibilities. He licked the skin a few more times, just to feel him shake. He was flooded with a surge of confidence, _this_ was familiar territory, something he was very good at. He sucked briefly on the fluttering pulse point, producing a choked whimper.

“ _Lyndon!_ ” Jack growled, panting harshly.

"What?" Lyndon pulled back and grinned, the more Jack tried to stifle himself, the harder the scoundrel worked to pull sounds from him. An amusing game. He kissed him again while he untangled Jack's fingers from his shirt so he could finally take the damned thing off and fling it across the room. He tightened his grip around Jack's waist, their chests pressed together, skin to skin. He snaked his fingers lower, massaging the hard thighs slung on either side of him, trying to distract the hunter with kisses while his fingers wandered, but it was only a partial success.

"Wha-what are you _doing_?" Jack asked with a quiet desperation. Lyndon smiled mischievously. "Never you mind." He said slyly, then added, "Don't breathe so fast. You'll make yourself dizzy," when Jack started to suck air like a fish flopping on a dock. Lyndon assumed it was because he just managed to get the man's pants open and dipped his hand inside. And alright, the other man was _big_. He wasn't quite sure what he expected but it wasn't this. He was right about the women liking him at any rate. Lyndon curled clever fingers around the engorged flesh almost experimentally, letting it fill his palm. If they were face to face, close like this, it might be less embarrassing for him? Lyndon wasn't sure. It had never really been a problem for him. "I won't hurt you, relax." Lyndon breathed a little more seriously, but it was laughable really, bloody hilarious just suggesting that Lyndon could even attempt to hurt him, but there was more than one way to damage someone, the thief knew all too well.

The scoundrel started to stroke the hardness in his fingers slowly, making sure it was not too much, that he had not overstepped, but there was a sharp gasp and Jack's hips started to writhe and rock into his hand, moaning as he unconsciously spread his legs wider.

"Alright?" Lyndon asked against his mouth, because it never hurt to check. The hunter's eyes fluttered, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. He didn't respond, which Lyndon took as a good sign. The man almost appeared to be in pain if not for the telling sounds of pleasure that tumbled out of him. He kept throwing his head back and gasping, fingers scrambling for purchase. They crawled up Lyndon's arms like traveling spiders and settled into the scarred skin of his back, short nails bruising in crescents.

With his face flushed with a wild mix of nerves and desire, his breath sawing in and out of him at every touch, Lyndon thought that Jack had never looked more fetching. Gods, he wanted to do _everything_ to him.

The thief had to content his lust by laying soft bites and licks into Jack's mouth, neck, shoulders, collarbone, nipples, anything within reach. He used both hands now to tease and stroke him. Jack's body moved without his consent, lost to the sensations. Breathy "ah!" sounds spilling out of him. Lyndon loved this part, undoing the other person, making them lose themselves, and all because of him. His touch. He may have been selfish in many ways, but not in this. No one could ever say that he was not a generous lover. It was important to be liked he always thought, and what easier way was there to get someone to like you?

He slowed his hands down, drawing the pleasure out and making it good. Jack was half sitting up, long legs wrapped around Lyndon's waist, pulling him closer. His muscles squeezed and flexed while they moved together. Lyndon imagined how _nice_ it would be to get the other man completely naked. He was so achingly hard he thought he might just die if he didn't touch himself soon.

Jack tipped his head forward to rest Lyndon's shoulder as his nails drew pink, stinging lines into the scoundrel's shoulder blades. Lyndon sped up the movements of his hand on the hunter's arousal, stroking him quickly, free hand around himself now, easing the ache and narrowing his awareness down to the sensations shared between them. Jack started to make lovely, pitched, breathy noises. He was close. _Gods._ They both were.

The Demon Hunter suddenly went silent in his orgasm, shuddering as he came completely undone. His eyes went distant for long seconds, then he sunk his teeth into Lyndon's shoulder suddenly and his nails drew blood as he finally moaned, long and agonizing. The pain was pleasantly sharp at first, but then Jack bit down hard, eliciting a yelp from the rogue, then a deep groan as the pain bled into pleasure and dragged him over the edge.

Lyndon came back to himself in stages as the haze of lust cleared. With the pleasurable fog ebbing he could start to feel pulsing welts in his back, his left shoulder felt particularly sore. He spared a glance at it and saw that he was actually _bleeding_ from teeth marks. "Owww." Lyndon mouthed, hissing air through his teeth.

Well, no one could say that Jack wasn't a _fierce_ one. He'd seen what the man was capable of first hand, he supposed it could have always been worse. He could have torn his damned head off for instance or skinned him alive, just like those- _No. Don't think about those things anymore._

The man in question was draped over him in a weak embrace, panting and twitching from aftershocks. Jack finally sat up a bit and locked eyes with him. His gaze half lidded, pupils blown wide from arousal, making them appear mostly black with just the smallest ring of turquoise, like the color of the Great Ocean on a midsummer's afternoon. They were vulnerable and open, softer than Lyndon had ever seen them. He had just enough presence of mind to think _oh,_ _damn it all,_ before those eyes finally moved away from his to fix on the bite he had inflicted. Lyndon forgot about the mess all over his hands and chest, realizing it was probably all over the sheets now. He grimaced and wiped his fingers off. Oh well, it wasn't like he wasn't _used_ to being covered in all sorts of strange fluids, this being the least strange on his depressingly long mental list.

And it wasn't like the room wasn't already a complete disaster anyway. Who cares?

"I'm... _sorry_." Jack whispered in a raw voice, still breathing heavily. He looked exhausted. Physically and emotionally, but worse than that, _humiliated._

"Shshsh. None of that. It's fine... are-are you alright? Here, lie down." Lyndon said worriedly, moving over and maneuvering the hunter to lie down on the bed and pulling the blankets back over him. Jack buried his head in his folded arms and took a deep breath. 

"Good? Fun?" Lyndon asked hesitantly, smiling brightly to drag them both out of the awkward mess they'd found themselves in.

"I'm-" Jack began, a little unsure, "I'm sure you've had... better." He finished shyly, looking anywhere but at the scoundrel's face.

Well, he wasn't exactly wrong but- "Nonsense. You were just fine."

Jack was soaked in sweat, lying on his stomach, a little tense, head turned to the side on his folded arms, kiss swollen lips parted slightly as his breathing calmed, and watching him with those damned _eyes_.

"Oh." He sounded _so_ sweetly unsure.

Maybe Lyndon was in just a little bit over his head here. This little incident was beginning to feel like it had been more of an inevitability rather than a happy accident. That sudden, internal revelation was a little sobering, but then again, given his rather promiscuous history, he felt he should have expected this. And was it really any more shocking then those giant demon creatures that had their skin torn off to be used to make those roads in Hell? Probably not. Likely nothing else ever would be- _Oh Gods, disgusting.  
_

"Alright?" Lyndon asked again.

" _Yes_. Stop asking me that." Jack eventually answered, voice gravelly.

"I will when you stop lying." Lyndon responded quickly, stretching his back and moving to sit up against the headboard. "You're a terrible liar."

The Demon Hunter was quiet, and he blinked, staring into the nothingness of the pillows and sheets.

"I'm alright." Jack finally said. Lyndon smirked and brought up a careful hand down to stroke the hunter's shoulder blades. He jumped when Lyndon's fingers made contact, and went very still for a few moments, as though the sensation was more foreign than pleasurable. Lyndon thought that rather sad, and kept it up. Jack relaxed into it eventually, and they sat in peaceful quiet for several long minutes. The man deserved to feel normal for once, instead of like some killing machine, or an unfathomable demigod. He deserved to feel like a person, and if Lyndon could give him that for even a moment- It was good of him right?

 

_Harmless fun._

"Why did you come with me? It couldn't have just been for the gold." Jack asked suddenly, catching Lyndon off guard. "I mean... I mean _after_. Not... Not before." Jack continued awkwardly.

"You asked me to go. So I did." Lyndon said gently, letting his fingers trace soothing patterns over the hunter's spine. He missed being able to touch someone, feeling bare skin under his fingertips. It had been too long.

Jack stared at him, his expression rather strange. "Is it so simple?"

"Sure. Why not? We're friends aren't we?" Lyndon asked, then frowned at the man's pensive expression. "And I must say, if I'm the best you could find than I apologize." He joked, hoping to ease the tense line in Jack's shoulders.

The Demon Hunter's mouth finally curved up in a small smile of pure gratitude. "Yes. Thank you."

_Is someone like me really worth looking so unbearably grateful for?_

"Anytime." Lyndon said and, damn it all, meant it, but see? _A little fun never hurt anyone. They were fine.  
_

Jack closed his eyes as the sensation of being touched finally relaxed him, the ever present tightness of his shoulders loosening as he curled against Lyndon's legs, growing drowsy. Lyndon let his fingers wander, discovering that yes, that black hair was as thick and as soft as it looked, and he scratched lightly at the man's scalp. That touch earned him a sudden shudder along with a soft noise of pure contentment.

_Good._

“Hmm. Do you think Itherael still watches us?” Lyndon asked suddenly.

“Muh?” Jack mumbled, already half asleep.

“Never mind.” Lyndon muttered, then was quiet again.

Lyndon continued to pet his hair, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. His fingertips traced down again to his back, then over the tattoo, and he remembered he wanted to know more about it.

"Jack? Are you asleep?" he asked quietly. There was only a soft snore in response. Lyndon grinned in triumph. He supposed he could always ask him tomorrow.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=+=

 

The sun rose to greet a cold morning. There was a thin layer of frost on the ground that would melt within hours, but that didn't change the fact that Winter (the most depressing season, ask anyone) was trying to creep up on them _already_. Lyndon woke to warm breath, puffing rhythmically against the top of his spine and a bare, corded arm wound firmly around his chest. There was a warm body attached to that arm, curled tightly against his back. He was bewildered for only a moment before he recalled the previous night.

History dictated that he should be hastily gathering his things and escaping through the window before his night's conquest woke. But this was an entirely different situation. Leaving was simply not an option, nor one he even considered.

Jack was still deeply asleep beside him, practically wrapped around him. It was strange that the hunter was not up before him, but Lyndon supposed he had experienced a rather... _eventful_ night. Feeling more refreshed then he thought despite the many interruptions in his sleep, Lyndon untangled himself carefully and slipped out of bed, dragging the blankets and furs back over the hunter. He was relieved when Jack barely stirred, only sighed softly and burrowed deeper into the warm spot he'd left behind.

He looked at the sleeping Demon Hunter and tried to fully comprehend the little problem he had created for himself. His desire raged within him like a caged beast. He could barely look at the other man without getting hot and bothered. The wheels began to turn in his head for how he could possibly be able to get Jack to do this again. Do _more_. He had no idea how Jack was going to feel when he woke, so he decided to enjoy the moment while it lasted.

Lyndon shivered, uncomfortable in the cold room and a bit depressed by the dried blood on the floorboards. He hunted up his shirt and dressed quickly, feeling the sting of cuts in his back and the soreness of the "love bite" when he moved. He was pleased that his boots seemed to have dried well enough and he pulled them on carefully. His duster was dry as well and he pulled that on too, glad to finally be wearing something warmer than just a tunic and pants. He then tackled the problem of moving all the furniture he had piled in front of the door without disturbing the Demon Hunter.

Having somehow miraculously accomplished this with only a stubbed toe to show for it, he chanced a glance back at the hunter, noting with some satisfaction that he hadn't moved.

He'd wake Jack when he got back if he wasn't up, but for now, he'd let him sleep as much as he needed to.

He grabbed the deer skull and skin almost as an afterthought, then strapped his weighty crossbow to its familiar place on his back before he shut the door quietly, making sure it would stay closed alright despite being broken in several places. Satisfied, he made his way downstairs.

If there was one thing Lyndon appreciated about mornings it was how quiet things were. It was wretched thing to wake up to a headache _and_ loud noises after a night of heavy drinking.

"C-can I get you anything my Lord?" The Innkeeper asked him nervously when he approached the bar, interrupting his musings.

 _Ooo! Lord hm_? He resisted the urge to laugh. What a nice change this was. He'd always like the sound of 'Lord.'

"Why yes... yes you can. Breakfast please, for myself and my _Demon Hunter_ friend upstairs." He stated, watching the chubby man pale at the mention of Jack. A sneaky tactic, to intimidate with the Hunter's presence, but Lyndon hadn't gotten to where he was today by playing fair. "I'll return in a half an hour or so. And _so_ sorry about the room and the hall. Right mess that was!" Lyndon finished with a smile, tossing more coin onto the counter.

"Not a problem my Lord! R-right away my Lord!" The Innkeeper managed, while scrambling into the kitchen.

"You are _too_ kind." Lyndon said on his way out the door, voice filled with mirth. He spied the three girls from last night, sprawled snoring over their table, soaked in vomit, thus reinforcing his good decision to spend his time with _Jack_ instead. He grinned to himself, looking much like a Cheshire cat.

Ha!

The muddy streets outside weren't quite as bustling as he expected they should have been in the early morning, but it was a small town, and people were still up and about, going about their daily business.

There were no harsh words hurled in his direction today. People steered clear of him as he walked by, but stared after him, speaking to each other in hushed voices when he passed. Word, apparently, traveled fast. He expected no less. He was glad no one approached him, he didn't much feel like speaking to anyone, wanting instead to get back to the room as soon as he could and eat.

The scoundrel made his way lazily to the town square where he assumed the market would be set up. He expected that Jack would want to leave here as soon as he was up, and thought he might pick up the supplies they needed ahead of time to hasten their departure as a little favor to the hunter. He approached the stands and perused the items for sale. It was tempting to steal, but he definitely had the money and besides, Jack would know and would only be cross with him. He bought a bag of apples and a bag of potatoes, packing them away in his bag carefully. He also picked up some oats and a few longer lasting loaves of bread.

He was aware that people were watching him, so he greeted each shop stand owner with a smile and remembered his 'pleases' and 'thank you's.' He had no desire to draw any more negative attention to himself. He'd not seen hide nor hair of the surviving men from last night and was extremely grateful for that.

Thinking of the repairs they would have to make to some of their clothes, he traded in the deer skin and skull for spools of strong thread and strips of cured leather for patching. He wanted to have something new tailored at some point, but he would not find the quality or materials he desired in a place like Holbrook. Demon skin leather was a rather difficult material to find. Jack's cloak was made of it and it protected him very well. Lyndon wanted that same protection for himself, then Jack wouldn't have to worry about him so much.

There was a large Raven sitting on top of one of the buildings in the square. It caught his eye before it flew to a closer perch. He paid it no mind, he'd seen the black carrion birds plenty of times before. Even when most of the other animals had gone, they remained.

Struggling to think of anything else they needed, Lyndon decided that what he bought would probably be enough for now. They could always stop in Bram- No. Not Bramwell, _or_ Havenwood Lyndon thought sadly, thinking of how upset Jack was last night.

Tristram then. They weren't too far away and they needed to meet up with Haedrig anyway. He looked forward to that! He really missed the blacksmith. Thinking back to the map, he concluded that Bramwell was closer to Westmarch than it was to Holbrook, but he wasn't quite sure.

Lyndon suddenly spied a familiar looking item that he had previously only seen in Caldeum and other cities boasting far greater wealth than little Holbrook. There was only one on display. Possibly a fluke delivery, not many in a town like this would even be able to afford an entire bag. And besides, Jack _loved_ it.

“How much for the coffee?” He asked the young shop girl. She seemed surprised to be spoken to and swallowed nervously, a red blush creeping onto her cheeks. He noted that she had blonde hair, tied up in a bun and was rather _pretty_ despite her obvious hand-me-down dress. He smiled at her. The blush worsened and she stammered when she spoke. “C-coffee is seven gold mi'Lord! All the way from Lut Gholein!”

“Ah, well then....” He said smiling gently. “One please.” He handed her the equivalent value of fifty. “Keep the change.”

“A-are you _sure_ -?” She asked, stunned, handing over the bag to him with clumsy fingers.

“Quite.” He replied, winking at her. “ _Thank_ you!” He added, taking his purchase and strolling away. Leaving the girl standing with more gold in her dainty hands than she would likely see in several months.

Sometimes, it felt good to do the _nice_ thing.

He headed back toward the Three Arrows Inn, feeling proud of himself. Then he noticed the Raven again, flying along the tops of the houses. It stopped when he stopped, and kept up with him when he continued walking.

...Strange.

Eventually, it landed on the ground in front of him and squawked. Lyndon, confused, shoo'd it away with a wave of his hands and continued on. It didn't fly away, but instead hopped after him making a bizarre collection of loud, annoying noises.

"Alright, alright? What do you want?!" He shouted at it irritably, frightening a nearby baker, pushing a cart of bread. Lyndon was expecting it might be begging for a handout of some kind, but then he noticed the letter tied to the thing's leg.

“Oh, you're _Jack's_ Raven.” He said. If you've seen one raven you've seen them all in his opinion. He approached it, assuming he could just pick it up and take the letter. The Raven started caw'ing and clicking and making a racket. Lyndon managed to grab its foot and it flapped at him angrily, hitting him in the face with its wings.

He was causing quite a scene now, but he didn't care as he struggled with the angry bird. “Just... _let me_!” He grunted, fingers being pecked as he painstakingly untied the letter from the thing's foot. “GIVE IT HERE!” He shouted, finally getting the parchment free. “Gods, wretched ball of feathers!” He snapped, looking around awkwardly to the people watching who had averted their eyes and hastily moved away from him. He smoothed his hair back into place and examined the parchment.

The letter was addressed to _Jack_ , in pretty writing, but he unrolled the paper and began to read it anyways. Oh! It was from Eirena! And, he supposed, from Kormac by default. She asked how they were, spoke of how she and Kormac were getting on. He chuckled a bit at how _oblivious_ she was to the Templar's affections. It was all very hilarious. He read on, she talked about what she learned in the library... boring, boring, _more_ boring. He skipped through the letter quickly, stopping only when he saw his name or Jack's. She asked how Jack was doing, how he was _feeling._ Lyndon frowned, she was as concerned for Jack as _he_ was. Then he read ' _Kormac wants to know if Lyndon is acting tolerably. I told him that Lyndon was probably fine company. He is very cheerful most of the time and will be good for you. I hope that this is the case as Kormac was very concerned._ ' Lyndon grit his teeth, blood boiling.

That... rotten... _Templar_!

He sighed in frustration, thinking about how he could get back at Kormac, then forced himself to read the rest. Eirena asked about Tyrael and if they had heard from him or his new band of Horadrim. She also asked when she and Kormac should leave for Westmarch. As much as he wanted to send back a scathing insult to that _stupid_ Templar, Lyndon decided he'd have to give the letter to Jack so that he could send them a reply. He tucked the letter into a pocket of his coat carefully.

The Raven was cawwing at him again, and he kicked at it in exasperation. He hated birds! "What do you _want_?!" He yelled. The bird rumbled and clacked. Lyndon had a thought and searched his pockets, he fished out some old, soggy cured venison and hurled it at the creature. The Raven picked it up in its mouth and flew toward the inn.

Lyndon spent the rest of the short walk wondering how Jack was going to find the bloody thing again to send his reply. And how did it even get across the sea to and from Caldeum? Surely it didn't _fly_? Did it stow away on a boat? He pulled open the door to the Inn, noting that there were more people inside now chatting to the Innkeeper. They looked up at him nervously when he opened the door as if he were going to pull out his crossbow and start _shooting_ at the lot of them. The men scattered to different parts of the room as he entered.

He approached the bar and handed the frightened Innkeeper the bag of coffee beans.

“Brew some of this please. I'll wait.” He said quickly, picking at the breakfast the man had brought out to him. Ham and eggs, one of his favorites! He ate contentedly while the poor innkeeper met his demand. Mouth full of food, he waved and smiled to the other individuals scattered around the tavern who looked away fearfully.

Bored, he sighed and hoped it wouldn't take too long to _leave_. All these people tip-toeing around him would only be amusing for so long.

The innkeeper returned with a steaming pot of coffee along with porcelain cups and containers of sugar and fresh cream. Lyndon took the bag back from him and stacked everything neatly on the tray. He grinned at the innkeeper, amused by the man's wariness toward him, if only temporarily. If everyone was this frightened of _him_ , how would they react to seeing the Demon Hunter in the flesh? He laughed to himself and went back upstairs.

 


	5. Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end! (for now) I'm proud I actually finished this!
> 
> Not as long as the other chapters, but w/e. I hope ya liked it! I have more stories (both short and long) from the Diablo verse in the works!
> 
> (Special Thanks to Stellarwing for their helpful and encouraging feedback!)

_Angel, angel, what have I done?_  
 _I've faced the quakes, the wind, the fire_  
 _I've conquered country, crown, and throne_  
 _Why can't I cross this river?_  
  
 _Pay no mind to the battles you've won_  
 _It'll take a lot more than rage and muscle_  
 _Open your heart and hands, my son_  
 _Or you'll never make it over the river._  
― _The Humbling River_ , Puscifer

 

Lyndon opened the door soundlessly, balancing everything carefully, and noted that Jack was still asleep. Lovely. He was feeling rather good, and had been hoping an arrow through the skull wasn't in his immediate future. He closed the door quietly with his foot and unshouldered his bag of purchases. There was some movement from one of his bags on the floor and he froze, before cautiously nudging it with his foot. It tipped over and pair of ferrets spilled out of his satchel, wriggling like furry snakes. They quickly scampered into one of Jack's traveling bags, chirping to each other.

Lyndon sighed, but he decided not to let it spoil his terrific mood. He hadn't felt this good in a long time.

The tray of food he set down clattered lightly on the small table and Jack shot up, quick as a whip, hand already on one of his crossbows before he recognized Lyndon. He put the weapon back carefully and exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. His shoulder length black hair was messy, tousled from sleep.

 "Good _morning_ , sleeping beauty." Lyndon teased merrily, "Breakfast in bed?" He asked lightly, grinning. Jack stared at him, looking mildly exasperated, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

Jack sat there a few moments, blinking in the light and Lyndon took in the sight of his bare torso with some appreciation. He looked as _enticing_ in the sunlight as he did by candlelight.

"I overslept." Jack stated blankly, looking around the room.

"Yes, you were very tired." Lyndon replied, pouring himself some coffee while he finished his breakfast. It wasn't exactly _late_ , but Jack was usually up at first light.

“What _time_ is it?” He asked.

 Lyndon peered at the softly ticking clock on the mantle, “Just past nine.”

"We shouldn't linger here any longer." Jack threw the covers back and got out of bed with a low groan, gripping his wounded arm tightly. The injury hadn't bled through the bandages Lyndon observed gladly, despite their... _vigorous_ activities.

“Hurts?” Lyndon asked around a mouthful of cold ham. Jack nodded at him silently, hunting around for his clothes. A few minutes passed in silence while Jack got himself together.

"I like your shirt." Lyndon said casually, sipping at his coffee, testing the hunter's reaction.

Jack frowned. "I'm not wearing a-," Then realization dawned on the hunter's face and he glared at the scoundrel with great irritation. "That's what I _like_." Lyndon finished, smiling slyly.

Jack's glare fell away to be replaced with a deeply worried, uncertain expression. Lyndon was curious to see how Jack would feel about their new... _affections_ for each other. He supposed the man's face was answer enough. _Well_ , Lyndon thought, sighing softly, he should have known this would take _work_. Jack seemed to be more or less back to normal, and Lyndon was beginning to think that last night may have just been a moment of weakness for the hunter, much as he hoped it would be otherwise.

He couldn't be sure of Jack's true thoughts on the subject, as he _certainly_ wasn't going to talk about his feelings again anytime soon. As difficult as it would be, Lyndon would have to be _patient_ and give him space. Strangely, he felt up to the challenge.

After all, Kingsport wasn't built in a day.

“Hey, don't worry about it. You have enough to think about.” Lyndon said reassuringly, already formulating plans in his head. He poured the hunter some coffee and dumped in cream and sugar as Jack dressed himself in his armor carefully.

Jack looked at him shyly and nodded, “Alright.” he murmured quietly, appearing as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest.

"In the meantime, we're still _friends_ , alright?" Lyndon said seriously. “Really, I'd prefer it if you didn't _clam up_ again. You can still talk to me about whatever you like. ” He offered.

"Yes, alright." Jack whispered, with near disbelief, as if he'd forgotten what it meant to have someone he could confide in. That struck Lyndon as terribly sad, but he was heartened by Jack's response. It meant Lyndon could keep trying to get close to him without being shoved away.

Jack grabbed a scarf and tied the two ends together to make a makeshift sling for his wounded arm, sighing slightly as the ache lessened. Then he went to feel his cloak that was still hanging up, and finding it dry, removed it from the rope it hung on and wrapped it around himself like a security blanket. He kept the hood down though, and ran a quick hand through his hair to smooth it out. Lyndon followed his movements with his eyes, mind a swirling tempest of conflicting thoughts.

There was a clicking sound at the window, that Raven was sitting on the sill, pecking lightly at the glass. "Oh." Jack opened the window and cold air rushed in. He took the bird on his good arm, closing the window after it, and pet it gently in long strokes with his injured one. Lyndon thought it must hurt to touch the mangy thing, why do it? Jack let it bite gently onto his fingers and it made a soft cooing sound. Lyndon was suddenly _insanely_ jealous. He stared daggers at the dirty thing, practically spitting. He couldn't believe he was actually _envious_ of a disease ridden rat with wings!

"It had a letter, I nearly forgot, I er... _saw_ the bird outside." Lyndon fibbed quickly and handed Jack the letter from inside his duster. “Your bat is in the curtains.” He added as an afterthought. Jack silently fished the sleepy brown creature out of the window fabric and tucked it into a pocket in his cloak, then sat down at the table. He read the letter carefully while he ate, casting Lyndon a glance once or twice and the scoundrel once again thought of what Kormac had said about him. What a _bastard_ that Templar was!

“It's easier to take letters from him if you're more patient, he doesn't like being approached too quickly.” Jack said to him without looking up. Lyndon glared at the Raven, “And _I_ don't like having my fingers pecked.” He said childishly, directing his response at the black bird. Jack sighed.

“And Kormac would trust you more if you stopped _stealing_ from him.” The hunter lectured sternly, meeting his eyes evenly.

“And I'll _stop_ stealing from him when he calls me by my bloody _name_ rather than just 'scoundrel' all the time!” Lyndon snapped angrily, but then became immediately apologetic. “Sorry, I'm not mad at _you_ , I just- ugh. He's going to need more than _locks_ for his satchel.” Lyndon muttered darkly.

“I'll speak with him if you like, but the both of you should try harder to get along.” Jack offered with a sigh.“You might also consider _asking_ before reading a letter addressed to someone else if you do not want to be upset.” Jack continued gently with a slight upward quirk of his lips. Lyndon merely grumbled, picking at his food.

“No news from Tyrael then.” Jack said, folding up the letter. “I wonder if something has gone wrong?” Jack said with some concern as the Raven took ham from his fingers.

“Do you think something might have?” Lyndon asked worriedly. He was beginning to enjoy the peace after the defeat of the Prime Evils, he rather hoped it wasn't about to end before it really began.

“The Black Soulstone is very dangerous. We should take a caravan to get to Westmarch faster just in case. Its not like Tyrael to not send word for so long.” Jack replied, taking a sip of his coffee. “He said they were hiding the soulstone underground, very close to Westmarch, but would not say anymore than that.” He continued.

 _No more walking then! Thank Akarat!_ Lyndon thought brightly.

Jack paused, mid sip. "Where did you get this?" He asked suddenly, only then realizing what he was drinking. He wrapped both hands around the cup gratefully.

"In the market. I _bought_ it for you. Along with some other things we needed." Lyndon said simply, pleased with himself.

“You didn't have to-” Jack began awkwardly.

“I wanted to.” Lyndon interrupted quickly. “You had a bad night. Well, _partly_ anyways.” He finished with a smug grin.

An embarrassed flush crept up the hunter's neck and Lyndon noticed some bruising at his throat, marks he had left in his lustful eagerness. Jack should _probably_ wear a scarf for a while.

"I... do not deserve your kindness." Jack said quietly, eyes downcast, Lyndon knew that he wasn't just talking about the coffee. The scoundrel scoffed at that. _His_ kindness? Jack was so much nicer than he could _ever_ be.

 "Right, right, I'm a bloody saint. No more of this nonsense now, don't be ridiculous. You deserve this and more." Lyndon said quietly giving the man's shoulder a squeeze. Careful not to push. "Drink your damned coffee."

Afterward, when Jack was tearing out a piece of paper from the back of his journal to reply to Eirena, he paused and cautiously showed Lyndon an etching of his sister. It was a very _good_ drawing, the image appeared very realistic with little stylization or embellishment. The edges were worn from what Lyndon could only assume were repeated viewings, but the image itself was not faded and well cared for. Lyndon looked at it for a long time, noting the facial similarities between Jack and his younger sister. He wasn't quite comfortable holding it, for fear that he would damage it somehow.

“She was very pretty.” He said eventually, handing it back to Jack, who took it and placed it back in his journal carefully. “Did she have light hair? Its not colored to be dark like yours.” Lyndon asked.

“Yes, it was so blonde it was almost white. Silvery.” Jack said, sounding a little tired again. “My father had light hair too, thought not as light as hers. My mother had black hair, like mine.” He continued, it clearly pained him to speak of it and Lyndon wished he hadn't asked. “I've never shown her picture to anyone else before, other than my mentor.” He finished quietly.

Lyndon didn't have a response for that, but it left him feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the weight of Jack's trust.

Jack moved back to the table and penned a quick reply to Eirena, detailing their plans. Then attached it carefully to the Raven's leg before sending it on its way. Good riddance!

It didn't take them long to gather their things and head downstairs. Jack paused to give the ruined and bloodied hallway a vaguely tortured look, but continued on at Lyndon's non verbal urging. The scoundrel hoped he would not continue to blame himself.

Downstairs, the innkeeper froze at the sight of the Demon Hunter approaching him.

“Good morning.” Jack said quietly. “Could you tell me if there are any caravans that might be passing through and would be traveling to New Tristram? Or any that might accept payment for a detour?” The hunter spoke so quietly and calmly that the innkeeper seemed to relax a bit and answered his questions. Lyndon hovered about near the fireplace, letting Jack do his thing. The hunter kept his hood down, which probably went a long way for making him look less frightening. Perhaps he'd finally taken to following Lyndon's advice that if he presented himself in a friendlier manner, strangers wouldn't be so wary. Maybe Lyndon could even convince him to _smile_ sometime!

Lyndon circled back a little closer to hear what the innkeeper was saying.

“I know yeh saved New Tristram, and everyone in town knows it now too.” The bearded man said quietly. “We're grateful to yeh for keeping us all safe. Though some are still afraid... because of the massacre here nearly two years ago. Please understand, people almost didn't want to come _back_. Then to see a Demon Hunter again so _soon_...” The man explained quietly.

Two years ago? Lyndon thought. That meant Jack hadn't been away from the Demon Hunters for very long at _all_.

“Yes. I know.” Jack said quietly. “Thank you for letting us stay. I'm truly sorry that anyone was hurt.” He finished.

“Yeh seem like a kind young man. It was not yer fault.” The innkeeper conceded. “They acted alone on their own suspicions. Many tried to persuade 'em to stop.”

“Thank you.” Jack said simply, handing over a sizable amount of gold, then he caught Lyndon's eye and they left.

“What did he say?” Lyndon asked immediately, eyes on the townsfolk watching them leave.

“He said that there might be a caravan waiting down the road near the river. They often stop there to water their horses. If they're there, they might be willing to take us to New Tristram.” Jack explained.

“Ah.” Lyndon replied absently, thinking.

They passed through the town gates, neither of them looked back, and followed the road leading away from Holbrook. Lyndon couldn't exactly say he would _miss_ the place, but if they hadn't stopped, he wouldn't have learned so much about his dark friend. He just wished Jack hadn't had to suffer such emotional (and physical) pain just so he could open up a little.

It was amazing, he thought, how much things could change in a single night.

 Jack had not spoken since they'd left the town and appeared to be lost in thought. Lyndon decided to let him alone for now.

They followed the road that ran by the river, Lyndon noted with gladness that it was getting a bit warmer out as the morning stretched on. The skies were blue and clear, hopefully that meant there would be no more bloody _rain_ for a while.

They came around the bend and saw a few wagons parked at the rivers edge, just as described. Lyndon could hardly believe their good fortune.

Jack spoke to the caravan master and offered him gold and protection in exchange for transport to New Tristram. The man eagerly accepted, thieves and demons were still a problem and any additional security was in high demand. The caravan master even said that they were already _bound_ for New Tristram! A _blacksmith_ there had apparently ordered some expensive new equipment. Lyndon delighted in the idea of surprising Haedrig by arriving with his order of tools. Soon they had all their possessions piled into the last wagon.

Lyndon settled himself into some hay in the last wagon next to Jack, thinking that this was not too dissimilar from the first time they had traveled in a caravan together, all those months ago. He had been hungover and a little sick then. That part didn't quite have the same nostalgic appeal.

Speaking of nostalgia, he suddenly had an amusing idea.

He skimmed his fingers into Jack's cloak, grinning to himself, and lifted his purse of gold from him as he had that first caravan trip. Jack was busy gazing out into the surrounding trees and didn't notice. When the hunter turned back to him Lyndon held the stolen item out to him, laughing at his own trick. Jack grabbed it back and narrowed his eyes in anger and confusion (Lyndon hadn’t stolen from him for quite some time), but then his face softened and he _smiled_.

Ah, _that's_ what he had wanted. “You have a _nice_ smile.” Lyndon said grinning at him. Jack looked down at his hands, smile fading. Not giving him a chance to retreat into himself, Lyndon asked the question he'd been sitting on since yesterday.

“That tattoo you have.” He began, curbing his amusement. “Its very ornate, what does it mean and where did you get it?” He asked earnestly.

Jack paused and thought about the question. “There is a man named Quang, a chemist from Xiansai who lives among the Demon Hunters in the Dreadlands. Apart from being an explosives expert, teaching us much of what we know about making grenades and traps, he is also a talented artist and tattoo master.” Jack began. “Most Demon Hunters get some form of tattoo, usually of some arrows or a raven or some other symbol of our calling. Few receive our sigil, which is what mine depicts.” He finished.

“Was yours a _special_ honor?” Lyndon asked curiously.

 “Something like that.” Jack replied simply, shifting with a slight wince.

“Hmm.” The thief hummed thoughtfully, watching him.

“Does that bruise on your hip hurt?” Lyndon asked.

“...Yes.” Jack answered cautiously.

“How'd you get it?” Lyndon inquired curiously, enjoying the experience of having all of his questions _answered_ for once. “Not at the farmer's field a few days ago?”

"No, I got it the other night when I got the stag. I... slipped on some moss and landed on a rock." Jack admitted sheepishly, a little embarrassed. It was usually _Lyndon_ who tripped and fell or slipped on something, Jack was normally quite graceful.

Lyndon chuckled, "You should have let me go with you when I'd asked."

 "Why? So you could have _saved_ me?" Jack questioned sarcastically.

"No, so I could have laughed at you!" Lyndon teased.

"Shut up!" Jack snapped at him, cheeks coloring pink.

Lyndon laughed warmly, then continued with his questions. "Everyone calls you young, just how old _are_ you anyway?" He asked.

"Why? Age has never stopped you before." Jack shot back quickly.

Lyndon barked out a laugh at Jack's sudden display of humor. “Haha! You've got me there!”

"You're just full of questions aren't you?" Jack muttered, looking out into the landscape again as the carriages prattled on down the road.

"It's my curious nature." Lyndon responded, "I'm just trying to get to _know_ you and since you've been so _chatty_ recently." He said with a smile, but regretted his words the moment they fell out of his mouth. He hadn't meant to remind the hunter of his emotionally trying, late night confession.

Jack's eyes flashed hurt and irritation and Lyndon hurriedly apologized, cursing himself for his carelessness. "Sorry, I just... You know a lot about _me_ , I just want to know more about _you_.” He amended hopefully.

"Twenty summers, you already know me." Jack replied tersely.

Gods, so _young_!

"Going by your personality, I always thought you were _older_ than me!” He said with some surprise. “I'm twenty eight, and I don't know you _that_ well. You've only told me a few things." The scoundrel added petulantly.

"I've told you more than I've ever told anyone else." Jack responded quietly.

Lyndon paused at that and wondered, "Why me?"

Perhaps _this_ was the question he had been sitting on since yesterday. Since two months ago in fact, when Jack had asked _him_ and him alone, to travel with him towards Westmarch.

Jack was quiet for a minute, he didn't seem to know the answer either. "I don't know." He finally said. He seemed troubled again and looked like he wanted to brood. They both sat quietly, rocking slightly with the rhythm of the wagon, wheels rolling over packed dirt. There were other travelers in the wagons ahead, talking, merchants discussing their deliveries, horses snorting just ahead.

"It's my looks isn't it?” Lyndon said seriously after long minutes of quiet. “I'm _devastatingly_ handsome I know, people just can't help but want to bring me everywhere." Lyndon finished airily.

"Shut up!" Jack shouted, giving him a hard shove.

Lyndon laughed loudly, tilting his head back. "Ha!" He snaked his arm behind Jack's shoulders, resting it on the back of the wagon, testing the limits again. Jack tensed up slightly and sat stiffly for a few minutes, but then gradually relaxed by inches. Lyndon was confident that his patience would eventually pay off.

The carriage rumbled west, back to New Tristram to begin again where things had begun before, the late morning sun warm on their backs.

 

 

-End

 

 

 


	6. Winds of Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: Jack struggles to classify what he and the scoundrel have become to each other.
> 
> A little sappy, but sometimes I like to indulge.

_I am too connected to you to_  
 _Slip away, to fade away._  
 _Days away I still feel you_  
 _Touching me, changing me._  
― _H._ , TOOL

 

Lyndon's presence was soothing.

Jack knew that words strung together in that order should not be able to exist as the rogue was frequently annoying, unhesitatingly selfish, a sneaky thief, a relentless complainer, teased him and Kormac (and everyone else) mercilessly, arrogant, argued, made dirty jokes and awful puns, had narcissistic tendencies, an almost supernatural ability to conjure bed mates when there should have been no one willing for _miles_ , and generally never closed his mouth, even when he was sleeping, which caused him to snore with a sound like a dying quill beast. Traits that did not commonly create a calming effect. Lyndon should not have been anything even remotely _close_ to soothing.

But he was all the same.

He was a man with many flaws, yes, but Lyndon had also changed much over the course of their quest. Though it was meager at best, the thief had finally developed a sense of responsibility. When he became involved in something he thought was important, he gave it his all and never turned back or ran, even if he was terrified. At first the Demon Hunter thought him a sneaky coward. Now, Jack found his bravery rather astounding. Lyndon was able to see the sunny side of even the most dire of situations and his chatter put Jack at ease, even if the hunter didn't always listen to what was said. The rogue never let him wallow in unpleasant thoughts if he could help it and frequently distracted him from brooding, something Jack had never realized he would appreciate.

Lyndon still refused to allow him to writhe in his nightmares, no matter how many times Jack asked not to wake him. The Demon Hunter found that he slept better, knowing that someone was going to be there to pull him back if his dreams and memories came to swallow him.

Jack hadn't thought much on Lyndon's effect on him until recent events forced him to examine their relationship in depth. He thought he knew what to expect from the thief, they had their routines and they got along well enough, all things considered. Even if Jack sometimes had to escape into the woods to be alone for a little while. They made a rather good fighting team as well. Then... they had stayed in Holbrook and many secrets had been whispered in the dark, changing everything Jack had ever thought or felt about the rogue and himself.

It had been one of the hardest things Jack had ever done, he would almost had preferred to go back to _Hell_. At least there he wouldn't have had to talk about himself, give voice to what had happened to him. Not even his mentor had been able to piece together the full picture. But he had told Lyndon almost _everything_. He had effectively spilled his guts to him at the slightest show of compassion and the scoundrel had surprised him yet again with words from the heart that had actually helped, like salve on a wound. Healing him by slow degrees.

Then he had surprised him one more time with demanding kisses and quick, wandering hands that had reduced him to whimpers. Lyndon touched him like he wasn't something vile or tainted, like he was something to be desired. Then he'd let Jack have space to breathe again, displaying a level of self control that Jack didn't think was possible for Lyndon, but he was extremely grateful for.

Now he didn't know quite _what_ to think.

The last time he'd thought about kissing someone had been before his village was slaughtered and razed. He thought back to a girl, hair like a bright flickering flame, who had lived a few houses away from him. They played together when they had been younger and had still been friends as he reached his teens. He remembered that she was pretty. Anna her name was. Jack had never thought of himself as particularly good looking when he was younger and after he had joined the Demon Hunters he didn't think about what he looked like at all aside from keeping his hair on his face and head from getting too long for practicality purposes.

Anna had died in her home, slaughtered with the rest of her family. That night so many years ago... he had wanted to save her, but in the end he had just fled into the forest with his sister. Another painful memory.

The hunter swallowed, feeling the slightest bit sick. It was harder to bury his memories and emotions now, they rose up unwelcome at the most inopportune times and greatly affected his concentration and mood stability. Why was it so much _harder_ now than before?

"Alright Jack?" Lyndon asked lightly whilst leaning against him, wrenching him hard from his thoughts, back into reality.

He was in the back of a caravan on a road through the forest, leaving New Tristram and heading towards Westmarch. Lyndon and Haedrig had been catching up since they had hit the road again, talking of how New Tristram had been getting on since most of the troubles had ended and what Haedrig had been doing with his time. Lyndon had been telling Haedrig stories of things they had seen and done in Caldeum and some parts of Khanduras while he and Jack had been traveling together. He had talked about how they had been ambushed in the Holbrook Inn, but had thankfully, omitted the more _personal_ details of that night. Lyndon was also bragging to the blacksmith about the arrows he was getting good at enchanting under Jack's careful instruction. He had a particular talent for the cold arrows, which would be quite helpful in the future if he mastered them. It must have had something to do with his refurbished crossbow. Lyndon occasionally had to scrape icicles off of the wooden handle that formed from the magic imbued within. Jack had largely remained quiet, lost in thought and had stopped listening to their conversation some time ago. They were both staring at him now.

"Yes, just... thinking." Jack replied softly.

"Ahh." Lyndon answered with a smile and turned back to the blacksmith. Haedrig was looking between them and Jack felt his face heat up. He turned back to the trees quickly. He felt like anyone that looked at him just _knew_ that he and Lyndon had... _d_ _one_ things. Things that made his breath ragged and his skin burn for contact. Things that made his fingers itch to clutch at hot skin and twine into soft, shiny brown hair. Things that made him want to _beg_. It was impossible of course for anyone to know, but he felt self conscious about it anyway.

Jack blinked hard and focused on the forest -a female cardinal fluffing her feathers, chickadees chirping and flitting through the pines- until the feelings abated. It was strange. These thoughts and desires were so foreign to him. He'd practically skipped adolescence, he basically took on the roll of being an adult at just fourteen. He hadn't chased girls, just trained hard for _years_. Josen had worried for him and had frequently commented on his lack of friends or interest in girls, trying to get him to open up and be a little more social with the others. _“Hate that festers becomes a stagnant pool, diseased and filthy.”_ he had told him. _“Let your hate flow freely to keep the river healthy. Do not keep it all inside or you will rot from within.”_ But Jack had said he was alright, a lot of the Demon Hunters were like him, they stayed quiet and kept to themselves. Josen had probably talked to all of them about the same things. Jack just wanted to focus on perfecting his aim, mastering a difficult trap or getting the feathered edges of the arrows just so.

And controlling his personal river of hatred.

He told his mentor this, and the older man had backed off a bit, but still made a point to talk to him sometimes. Jack was aware now that he had been afraid to get close to anyone. If they _died_... He put up walls to protect his heart from further pain. It was already so scarred he sometimes wondered how it was able to keep beating.

When he had started this journey, sent by Josen to investigate the falling star and reports of undead in New Tristram, he expected to be alone, and at the time, that hadn't troubled him. But then he had started _acquiring_ people similar to the ways in which he had acquired pets. People who refused to leave.

 _Friends_ , he now called them.

Leah had been his first friend since.... Well, he supposed Josen was his friend, the man had worried after him and spoke to him enough. In fact, he should write to him soon, he was probably wondering where Jack _was_. But Leah... she had been a real friend.

He tried not to think about her much. The feelings of guilt and rage that came with it were almost heavy enough to cripple him. Leah's death had hurt him, more than he'd realized.

Jack had befriended Kormac and Eirena, and had called Lyndon friend after he had warmed up to the abrasive man. But now he wasn't sure if the word still applied. Perhaps he should call him something else, but the word 'lover' didn't quite fit either. It had only been _once_ , but he clenched his hands just thinking about the word and what it implied. In his head, the word sounded like it was from a language he didn't understand.

He wasn't sure whether he should be _afraid_ of Lyndon or not, ridiculous as the thought was, but the way Lyndon had _looked_ at him yesterday, the last night they had been alone together. He had always considered Lyndon to be a rather... _passionate_ individual, but he had looked at him with such an intensity burning in his eyes that Jack had to look away. It was as if the scoundrel were trying to stare into his very soul and he had been afraid that if he kept looking back he would fall and lose himself. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt such an _irrational_ fear, not even in his nightmares. Lyndon had smiled at him after and bid him goodnight, but Jack didn't fall asleep for a long time. He was tired this morning because of it and he was certain Lyndon had noticed.

The thief was much more observant and sharp witted than he had initially given him credit for. Jack had thought he was careless and stupid. He was not. Though he was often a little flighty and impulsive, he hid an impressive intelligence and keen insight into the minds and motivations of those around him. His eyes missed _nothing_. Lyndon's outward selfishness and lecherous apathy was a carefully crafted facade that Jack had only seen through the cracks of a few times. The scoundrel had as many secrets as the hunter did.

Lyndon was awakening emotions in him he thought had long since died. They were fresh and sharp, now that they were creeping back. It was confusing and frightening. Like stumbling around in the dark, being unable to find a point of reference.

There was also the new fear that too much comfort would make him soft, sloppy, _weak_. But after talking to the thief about his pain, he'd felt more in control of his anger and was working on getting a handle on his budding demonic powers as well. He needed to alter his meditations and training to get control of these new abilities as soon as possible, the risk of hurting someone was too great for him to ignore.

He had a sudden rush of terrible fear then, sharp enough to tighten his throat and make his hands start shaking, what if they died because of _him_? He buried that fear almost as soon as it came, it was unbearable to consider. Jack stretched out his right hand to reach into his bag where the ferrets were sleeping. He pet them until the tremors in his fingers stopped. He thought he'd conquered his terror long ago. Apparently it was only for his fear of demons and death and had absolutely no effect on friendships and intimacy. Or nightmares. How convenient. He sighed softly.

And then, of course, there was the _touching_.

It wasn't often and it was never for very long, but, when Haedrig would look away, to dig out his pipe, go through his bag, or admire the scenery, Lyndon would _touch_ him. He would snake his fingers into Jack's glove with incredible stealthiness (a talent he should be using for things _other_ then theft and molestation) and stroke his fingertips over his palm, or he would caress the soft side of his wrist with his thumb, somehow get under his protective armor and shirt and lay a hand against the skin of his lower back, and even brush the sensitive place behind his knee. The first time it happened Jack had jumped as if he had been stung, and Lyndon had merely grinned innocently at him when Jack had practically bared his teeth at the man in anger. After, when it appeared Lyndon would not quit, Jack had to make a choice to either draw attention to the scoundrel's actions by asking him to stop, or do his level best to ignore it.

In the end, he chose to ignore it, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of the blacksmith. The bastard was teasing him on purpose to play havoc on his nerves! The touches caused his heart to beat faster if he let his mind wander back to the other night, remembering how those fingers had made him feel. That was really what upset him the most, the _memories_ they brought back without his permission. And yet... after a while, when he had relaxed a little and resolved to ignore the contact, he realized it was actually soothing and created a buzzing sensation throughout his entire body. He had no idea just how _calming_ it could be to be touched.

Before, he had gotten all the contact he hadn't realized he'd desperately wanted from stroking fur and feathers. Animals did not ask him questions and they were generally pure creatures. They could not engage in the same evil as man or demon, unless they were twisted through unnatural means. It was calming to touch them and he thought it was enough. But they had been no substitute for a living, breathing _person_.

He hadn't realized how much his body craved the contact, every touch was too much and not enough. He'd wanted the touch the other night, had craved and needed the sensations he'd never experienced. The intimate closeness of another human being. He spent so much time fighting to _save_ them, but he did not experience what it was to truly _be_ human. He had pushed much of it away as a distraction or something he just never thought he would have because of the life he had chosen. And now that he'd _had_ it...

Really, he shouldn't think about it anymore. He should just let things go back to how they were before. It was safer. Besides, it was only _once,_ andit had been almost twodays ago now. It had just been a- well... it wasn't quite a mistake was it? He _did_ feel better... but... all Lyndon's talk of _women_ , he never shut up about them. Countless numbers of poor girls he had slept with and hurt and left behind. He knew that Lyndon had a bigger heart then he let on, but he was still a creature of habit, if the continued _stealing_ was any indication. Jack couldn't think of an idea worse than becoming attracted to the Scoundrel. It would probably be the single dumbest thing he could do because it would only end in heartbreak.

And the proud part of him didn't want to give the narcissistic idiot the _satisfaction_ that not even the 'Big Bad Demon Hunter' as Lyndon sometimes called him, was immune to his charm.

Despite this new swirl of emotions, overall, he was more comfortable with the thief then he was with anyone else. They had more in common with each other than Jack had first realized. He tried to direct his new feelings towards developing a better _friendship_ instead.

Jack moved his thoughts along to reflect on Lyndon's earlier question, _Why me?_ Why indeed. Jack had pondered it for a while after the thief had asked. He'd acquired a few more vital pieces to the puzzle the thief presented him with and turned them over carefully in his mind: Lyndon had been hurt very badly by the rejection of the woman he loved. _So_ badly, that he closed himself off, never wanting to feel that pain again, hence the facade. He was a very lonely individual, something Jack had come to know with time and observation.

Now that he knew, it was easy to pick it out in his behavior towards others. A desperate plea to be with _someone_. Maybe because he never knew his parents, abandoned by them at birth perhaps? Children become orphans for any number of reasons, poverty, maybe they had died, or an unwanted pregnancy. He wondered how old Lyndon's brother was, were they close in age? Twins perhaps? It was hard to stomach the thought of _two_ Lyndons, even though the thief had claimed his brother wasn't much like him. One was almost more than he could handle. Jack had felt sorry for him when he realized just how lonely the scoundrel was, and tried to be (difficult as it was for him to even _converse_ with other people) a better, more attentive friend.

Lyndon had said his heart was _black_ and that he wasn't a good person. He could not have told a bigger lie than if he'd said Diablo had abandoned his evil ways and turned to the Zakarum church. There were many more walls between the person the thief wanted people to see, and who he really was, than Jack had initially thought.

Lyndon also had a lot to learn combat wise. Kormac and Eirena had been trained, Jack had trained, but Lyndon had no formal training and just worked from what his brother had taught him and his experiences in the Thieves Guild. He survived on natural talent and luck most of the time and Jack wanted to help him and teach him to be better.

But _why_ _him_ though?

Lyndon was relentlessly optimistic. Jack had never met anyone quite like him before, perhaps only Covetous Shen had even come close, and Jack was fairly certain the eccentric jeweler was not _quite_ a human. The scoundrel had a child-like wonder for new and exciting things that Jack didn't see in people anymore. The world of Sanctuary was a harsh one and children either grew up quickly or died. The thief laughed easily and often, despite mistakes he'd made in his life and a guilt that weighed on him heavily.

Jack wanted, no, _needed_ to protect that light in him. He needed to protect all that was warm in good in the world and keep it from turning as cold and desolate as his own tired heart.

Because if all the world lost its warmth and became as dark and as bleak as himself then all the fighting would be for _nothing_.

Jack sat still and let his eyes close, feeling tired, but relaxed by all of Lyndon's persistent contact. It seemed like he might be able to sleep a little after all, he always slept better during the day anyways. The rocking motion of the caravan as it continued down the road was soothing. And the birds were talking amiably to each other in the forest. He was glad the animals were coming back, he had missed their sounds of life. Jack concentrated on the lilt of familiar voices and where his shoulder connected with the thief's, beginning to doze. The warmth that seeped from the scoundrel heated his body and slowly began to thaw his frozen heart.

 

-End

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Desequilíbrio disciplinar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388194) by [KaernkOfRivia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaernkOfRivia/pseuds/KaernkOfRivia)




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